


It's Never Over

by charlotteschaos, prettyclever



Series: The Peaches Verse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bringing back Quentin, Character Death Fix, Complete, Crack, Eliot Waugh cosplay, Eliot Waugh has commitment issues, First Time (Kind of), Fix-It, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Makeover, Mild Daddy Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Pegasi, Post Season 4 Finale, Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, Quentin Coldwater is awkward, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Season 5 AU, Sex Magic, Size Kink, Sorry Not Sorry, Wedding Fluff, Zombies, adventures in homewrecking, articulating feelings is hard but our boys are learning, but like not exactly zombies, but the way the show is already canonically crack, canon compliant through 4x13, eliot's magic dick, episodic sex magicky shenanigans, everyone (but Margo) keeps forgetting about Hoberman, giant ants, innovative uses of walking sticks, like not major but it's definitely there because El is such a daddy ok, mild breathplay, nods to book canon, queliot forever, sexually-transmitted lycanthropy, turtle-on-Croc action, vers4vers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:12:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 101,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18518380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteschaos/pseuds/charlotteschaos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyclever/pseuds/prettyclever
Summary: Post-finale fix-it: Fillory Deeper & Harder, the S4 canon-compliant season 5 Queliot fans deserve.In which Eliot's marginally less afraid of commitment, Quentin is less clueless than he used to be, & Margo is a sassy alpha bitch.There's sex magicky shenanigans, a giant turtle, talking pegasi, and a plot to overthrow the Dark King and reclaim Fillory, all done Queliot-style.Soon, all will be well in the world.COMPLETE.Note: This belongs to the same verse (The Peaches Verse) as "Sound & Color", but the two works are entirely independent.





	1. The Visitation

**Author's Note:**

> In Fillory’s future, Eliot retreats with Margo to the Mosaic cottage. That night, he dreams so vividly of Quentin that when he wakes in the morning and sees him still there, he thinks he must be cracking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's never over,  
> My kingdom for a kiss upon his shoulder  
> It's never over, all my riches for his smiles  
> When I slept so soft against him  
> It's never over,  
> All my blood for the sweetness of his laughter  
> It's never over,  
> He is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever" — Jeff Buckley

Three hundred years in Fillory’s fucking future. It fucking figured.

Eliot leaned heavily on the cane as he and Margo made their way through the woods toward a place far more like home to Eliot than Castle Whitespire had ever been. He brooded silently, bad company as they picked through the overgrown pathways leading to the Mosaic cottage, but Margo didn’t press. She had brooding of her own to do with Josh overthrown and probably dead for centuries.

Fen too, and Eliot felt like he should be more upset about that, but he’d made peace with the fact he couldn’t maintain a healthy relationship, and a sharper grief overrode all other emotion.

_God, Q._

It had worked, hadn’t it? For fifty years. And Eliot could have had it again, could have had it back, could have _kept it_ , but he’d put it off like a chickenshit middle schooler.

As they neared the clearing, dread built in Eliot. Would the house be completely different? Would someone else live there now?

Just how badly would it hurt to see it again, now, when Q was gone forever?

The urge to just close his eyes and stop moving overpowered Eliot. He took a few ragged breaths and hoped Margo would chalk it up to the pain of his gut wound. Standing there, bleak-souled and raw, he summoned a smile and looked to Margo before she could notice he’d almost melted down. Taking her arm, he continued down the path to the cottage.

“Now, Bambi, never mind the décor. It’s not to your standards. However, it _is_ a charming and cozy family home perfect for hiding out from this Dark King and whatever bullshit he portends. It served as a laudable home base for five decades of my puzzle-solving attempts and will no doubt continue to prove a fine location for sorting shit out.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I hit you in the gut, not the head. Fifty years?” Margo eyed him and then took in the cottage, looking surprisingly the same despite the passing of centuries. Tiles were still stacked all around the mosaic, raising the question of how exactly Quentin had solved it. “Typical Fillorian dump. Not even enterprising Dark Kings were interested in developing this place.”

She turned, apparently taking in Eliot’s pained expression, and frowned. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s bigger on the inside.”

“It has an outhouse,” Eliot informed her with a twinge of sadistic glee.

“It _is_ an outhouse.” She gave him a sly smirk and shook her head as she trudged forward. “But I guess it’ll do until you’re recovered enough for us to storm the castle.”

She paused, gaze on Eliot when her eyes watered. She blinked and shook her head. “Damn, I loved that fish man.”

Eliot slung an arm around Margo’s shoulders as they closed the distance to the front door, hugging her against him and balancing them both with the brace of his cane. “I still can’t believe it. You and Hoberman.” He laughed softly, heart aching. “You have to admit, me and Coldwater was _much_ more predictable.”

He knocked at the door with his cane, just in case, and then opened it. “Ah. Here we are.”

And here they were. After everything, Margo and Eliot, platonic soulmates. They’d both changed so much, spent so much time apart, that it scared him to think too hard about where that left them.

“Honestly, your attraction to Coldwater always baffled me, but the heart wants what it wants. At least we have each other. And a whole lot of rotting wood and dust.” She peered around in disgust, but with a few simple tuts, it was at least clean, and the bed was renewed from the threadbare wreck it had been. “No bathroom but quite the bed. I see where your priorities were. Surprised anything got solved at all.”

“Touché.” Eliot raised a brow and stumped over to sit on the refreshed bed. So many memories threatened to rush back that he tamped down on all of it, refusing to acknowledge them.

After a heavy moment, he confessed, “I missed you so much. For a number of truly frustrating years. I thought about you every day.” He huffed and leaned back on the mattress, careful of his healing belly. “Q got married, had a kid… Arielle was no you.”

Eying Margo, he clarified, “She was sweet.”

“Of course she wasn’t. There is only one me.” She took his chin gently in her hand and gazed down at him fondly. “And only one you, which is why we all fought so hard to get you back. Including your Q.”

She leaned in and kissed his forehead before taking a seat next to him. “So he got married and left you with the mosaic to solve?”

“No, it was more like… We had a fuller life together after she came along. She loved Q. I loved Q. She was much more _open_ about loving Q.” He shrugged and pressed his side against hers until he could prop his chin atop her head. It was easier to talk when he didn’t have to look her in those knowing eyes. “She had a baby. Q’s baby, but we raised him together. Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh. Little Ted. It was…domestic.”

It came out sounding so droll. Unruffled. Why was it so hard to articulate how fulfilling the arrangement had been? Something stayed his words.

Would Margo mock him? Maybe. How could he tell her that he’d cherished being a grandfather? That he’d never stopped thinking Q was beautiful even when he turned gray and grizzled?

She froze for a moment, apparently processing the information. “That’s quite a name. Must’ve been quite a child.”

Margo took Eliot’s hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “So that’s why he was so driven to rescue you, huh? It’s hard to picture you as a sister wife, but I fucked a werewolf, so who am I to judge?”

Eliot squeezed Margo’s hand in return. “I was only a sister wife for a few years. Arielle died when Ted was five. Quentin and I raised him together after that.” He breathed deeply, inhaling the good, clean, familiar scent of Margo’s hair, and then kissed the top of her head. “He’s… He _was_ …”

Trailing off, Eliot lost himself in thought. Quentin had sacrificed everything to make sure the Monster never reclaimed him. Even after Eliot cowardly threw away their chance to be together, Quentin had been determined to save him.

Tears threatened, but Eliot pushed them down and cleared his throat. “We should set up wards. It doesn’t sound like Fillory is safe anymore.”

She took a deep breath and gave his hand another squeeze. She seemed hesitant to hug him because of his injury, but he could feel her intent. “You rest. I’ll handle it. When I come back, I can tell you about how I acquired the Ice Axes.”

Eliot nodded, his smile feeling feeble. “Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say or how to say it; his usual eloquence felt tapped out.

She rose and stepped outside, and Eliot made himself comfortable. He toed off his shoes to stretch out properly on the bed. He didn’t bother with the blanket—it would be too much effort to stand and fuss with it—so instead he nestled into the pillows and tucked an arm behind his head. His cane rested on the pillow beside him so he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Then he slept.

Exhaustion should’ve claimed him for oblivion, but something about this place…

Eliot wearily stumbled into the Physical Kids’ cottage. As he stepped over the threshold, he wasn’t weary anymore but tipsy, pleasantly so, and his heart was light because the Monster was banished. The Monster was banished, and Quentin was waiting for him upstairs.

This time, Eliot would be brave. This time he would bare his heart to Q, and maybe it would be too late, but it was the least he owed Quentin for his heroism.

As he climbed the steps, his wound healed, and each step hurt less than the one before. Light-headed and brimming with hope, he walked to his bedroom and opened the door.

Beyond his door was the Mosaic cottage as it had been, cozy and warm and golden with firelight. This place, more than any other, was El’s home. It was his home because Q was there.

“Hey.” Eliot smiled, unburdened, and admired the way Q looked bent over the fireplace, stoking the flame with a poker.

“Hey yourself.” Quentin looked over his shoulder and grinned. He appeared to catch Eliot’s gaze on his ass and wiggled it playfully. It was the sort of gesture that had taken him a good thirty years to get comfortable with in their other life. It was especially arousing to see him so chipper while still a young man.

He stood and set the poker aside. With little ceremony, Quentin came to Eliot, wrapped his arms around him and gave him one of the sweetest, most loving and thorough kisses Eliot had experienced. It was so full of feeling, and tenderness, and a boldness that was new.

Eliot abandoned himself to it, hardly care anymore than he’d intended to say something. He could show his heart this way too, couldn’t he?

Wrapping his arms around Q in turn, he bent him backward dramatically, laughing into the kiss with sheer happiness, and nipped at Q’s bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue and delving deep into Q’s sweet, familiar mouth. He nuzzled Q as they kissed, rubbing their noses together, and hummed his pleasure, wanting Q to know beyond doubt that this was what Eliot wanted, what he needed, what he’d longed for.

They straightened again without breaking their kisses, mouths still moving together greedily as Eliot backed toward the bed, drawing Q after him. When the edge of the mattress hit El’s legs, he sat and pulled Q forward to straddle his lap. Only then did he come up for breath, gazing up into Q’s eyes and sighing with relief.

Quentin cupped Eliot’s face and gazed down at him with a loving light in his eyes and such uncomplicated, pure fondness. He brushed his thumb over Eliot’s lower lip, then gave him another sweet, soft kiss, almost chaste this time.

His hands slid down to Eliot’s collar which he started to work apart. “I missed you. Missed you every day, even though your body was right there.”

After undoing a couple of buttons, Quentin didn’t seem able to help himself as he let out a little moan and cupped Eliot’s face again to kiss him sweetly, then more deeply, more eloquent than he ever could be with words.

His kisses before always seemed to be questions.

_Do you really want me?_

_Do you really care?_

_Is this what you want?_

_Is this what I want?_

But these kisses, Quentin’s touches, all felt like answers.

He wanted Eliot. He loved him. He was in the present moment, moving with surprising confidence.

“Oh, Q,” Eliot whispered, coming apart at the seams beneath Quentin’s hands. “Oh, Q, I love you, too.”

He smoothed his hands down Quentin’s back and gripped his ass, one hand splayed over each pert cheek, and tipped back his head to let Quentin kiss his throat. This Quentin was somehow two Quentins at once, the one Eliot had spent five decades living with and the one he’d been too afraid to kiss. He knew everything Eliot wanted, everything Eliot needed, with the confidence and skill of a much older man, but he was young and untouched by the years, simultaneously the cutie El had fallen so hard for from the moment they met and the stalwart partner Q had grown into over decades.

Affection choked his words, thick in his throat, and he clutched Q closer, a terrible, needy noise escaping from him.

Quentin nuzzled Eliot’s face before moving back down to kiss his throat, down to his chest as he made his way easily through the buttons of Eliot’s shirt. “I saw. I saw your heart.”

He looked up at Eliot, buttons unfastened, and he pushed the shirt off Eliot’s shoulders. There he stopped and traced Eliot’s collarbones reverently, admiration that had been so guarded and nervous before. “I wasted so much time not loving you like I should. I thought we’d have…”

Quentin’s gaze rose from Eliot’s chest as his hands moved up, squeezing Eliot’s nipples. Eliot gasped at the stimulation and then let out a shaky breath as he kneaded Q’s ass, bold because Q was bold.

“Me too. I should’ve—” Eliot shook his head a little, something dark pressing in behind that thought, something unspeakably awful. He looked at Quentin, momentarily lost, and licked his lips. “Hold me, Q.”

“Always.” Before he took hold of Eliot, Quentin pulled off his t-shirt and tossed it aside. Then he wrapped his arms around Eliot, pulling him to the side so that they could lay down together. “I’ll always be here with you, holding you when you need it.”

Their skin slid together, silky and warm. Luxurious and sweet as Quentin toyed with Eliot’s hair. “What do you wish you would’ve done?”

A sob rose in Eliot’s chest, and he struggled against that horrible dread lurking beneath his surface thoughts. The elation slipped, just for a moment, and something bleak and empty yawned.

Quentin’s hands in Eliot’s hair chased it away, and El found his voice. “I wish I’d told you yes, when you asked if we could give this a real chance, in our world. I wish I’d kissed you hard and stolen your breath like you have _always_ stolen mine.”

He gazed into Quentin’s eyes, a wan smile playing at Eliot’s lips, and then he leaned in close until Q’s dark eyes went Cyclopean and their breaths mingled. He ran his fingertips up Q’s bare back, counting the knobs of his spine, and then whispered, “I wish I’d taken what you were trying so courageously to give me, taken it and never let it go.”

The dread again surged in the back of Eliot’s mind, and he shut it down with his lips on Q’s. He whispered there against that satiny skin, “Tell me it’s not too late, Q.”

“I wish I’d had the courage to call you on it.” That shy smile returned, and the sadness. But it didn’t make Quentin as self-conscious as it had before. He didn’t withdraw. “Everyone’s given a final call they can make, a visitation. You’re mine. I’m here to give you permission to let me go.”

“Since when did I ever care about being given permission, Coldwater?” Eliot smiled to cover the emptiness and rolled them over, putting Quentin under him and gazing down into his eyes. “And you’re not going anywhere.” After a moment, he whispered, “That sounded better in my head. You can go, if you want to go. But I intend to make you _not_ want to go. I _need_ you not to go.”

“That’s out of my hands.” Quentin grinned up at him, touching Eliot’s face with great affection and Eliot could feel in his bones that if Quentin could stay, he would. “You know, that whole time, you as the monster, living on hope that you were in there, I knew without a doubt that I would give my life for you. But a big part of me didn’t believe it would come to that. That there would be time.”

Quentin averted his eyes for the first time. “But I was also fucking things up already. I didn’t know—we were just so bad at communicating. You weren’t wrong turning me away. There was a lot of truth to what you said. If anything, it was a sign you weren’t ready. But I don’t know that I was really ready either.”

“No.” Eliot grasped Quentin’s jaw and turned his head until Quentin had to meet his gaze. “We were as ready as we needed to be. I _know_ about Alice. I don’t _care_. Q, don’t you get it?”

Chest tight and aching, Eliot rasped, “Even if you’d made me share you, it wouldn’t have been the first time. It would’ve been better than this.”

“In the end it was bigger than any of that. Maybe if I thought you wanted me that much, I wouldn’t have volunteered to live forever with the Monster. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt the need to try and protect me. Maybe it would’ve all unfolded differently, but maybe it would’ve ended the world.” Quentin gazed up at Eliot, fingers gliding over his back. “It played out how it had to. But that’s why I can be here for you now.”

Overwhelmed, Eliot reached down to slide his hand between their bodies, stroking Quentin’s groin through his jeans as he kissed him again. Something tingled beneath Eliot’s skin wherever Quentin touched him, like the flare of magic, a flicker of power, and he clung to that instinctively, feeding energy into it. Working Q’s jeans open, Eliot bit at Q’s mouth, groaning against his lips.

He didn’t care about anything else. If this had all been inevitable, the way their books ended, then he’d take what was left to him with both hands and make it last

Quentin let out the soft sigh Eliot loved so much. No matter how old they’d gotten or how many times they’d been together, Quentin always reacted with immense relief and joy when Eliot touched him like this. As if he deep down believed Eliot didn’t really want him this way.

Hearing it now, Eliot couldn’t help but wonder if it would’ve been different if he’d been clearer, more honest. But as Quentin had said, perhaps this sacrifice was the only way the rest of them survived.

Quentin also reached between them, gliding through Eliot’s trousers, both hands caressing Eliot’s cock.

Gazing as if Eliot was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, Quentin closed the distance to kiss Eliot again. It tingled, something magical moving between them. An honesty that had eluded them, even after several decades.

Shimmying out of his clothes, Eliot stripped naked physically and psychologically, summoning every bit of courage he had, fueled by desperation. He shuddered as Quentin stroked him to full hardness, devouring Q’s mouth and letting him feel everything Eliot felt. He projected it into him like telepathy, straining to be understood, to be seen and heard and known. Always before he’d hidden, eternally cagey, the mysterious Eliot Waugh.

Now he laid himself bare and willed Quentin to know every secret corner of his heart, all the wrongs he’d committed, all his sins. He’d never been able to do it before, but he could now. He could now he’d escaped from his happy place, now he’d confronted it all for himself. He knew himself now in a way he’d always resisted, grown and changed, at least a little.

Shivering, he yanked at Q’s jeans, trying to work them down his hips and get them naked and alone together, just the two of them, just the candor of their nude bodies and need.

“Yes. _Please_.”

Eliot loved when Quentin begged, his breathy need when he got aroused. Quentin helped Eliot pull off his jeans, throwing them to the floor with a soft thump. Then Quentin wrapped his bare legs around Eliot’s, grinding their cocks together as ferocity consumed their kisses. He grabbed Eliot’s ass, pulling him hard against Q, manhandling him with unselfconscious passion, as if laying it all on the line to match Eliot’s surrender.

Now El more fully understood what Quentin meant about seeing his heart. He could feel the depth of Quentin’s emotions, the complexities that seemed to dissolve into something profoundly simple.

His need. His love. His reverential devotion. So much more than Eliot would have believed Quentin even had the capacity to feel.

This was the flipside of Q’s brooding, moody coin: the light to his darkness, the passion always hidden by his subdued quiet. Quentin had always been so sensitive, felt so deeply, but Eliot had never realized what it would be like to have that tender heart trained entirely on him. They’d always been holding back, trying to solve a puzzle, trying to focus on their goal.

Now this _was_ the goal.

Eliot pulled back long enough to work a lubrication spell, fighting the trembling of his hands as both their cocks went slick. Then they slid together again, Eliot winding his arms around Q’s back and clinging as they kissed and rutted against one another. If that was all Q wanted, it would be enough, would be so fucking good, so welcome and needed. Eliot hadn’t believed he’d ever have this again, now here it was, so real and good and true, his arms as full as his heart.

Quentin reached between them, wrapping his hand around their cocks, intensifying the feeling, keeping them squeezed together. He gazed up at Eliot, biting his bottom lip as he moved.

In their time together, they’d had each other in just about every way, even some positions it took magic to do or undo. Looking into Quentin’s eyes, it seemed obvious he wanted all of it at once, to do everything they’d ever done, however impossible.

“Tell me what you want, El. Show me.”

Eliot couldn’t think, his circuits overloaded with the keen pleasure of knowing Q would give him anything. He kissed Quentin like it would give him clarity, and it did. Purpose flowed through him, animated him, and Eliot shifted to straddle Quentin’s hips. Undulating slowly, Eliot reached down and caressed Q’s cock, and as he drew it back to slide between Eliot’s cheeks, the memory of a thousand other nights like this flowed through him, intoxicating and fortifying.

“I want to fuck your brains out, Coldwater. What else?”

Eliot tilted his head to the side and smiled as he pressed back onto Quentin’s head, sucking in a sharp breath at the first sensational crush of that silky, slick skin against Eliot’s grasping entrance. Shivering with anticipatory pleasure, he eased back slow and steady, opening to Quentin’s pressure, taking him in greedily. As their bodies joined, that thrill of magic swirled through El’s nerves anew, sparking and glittering.

Closing his eyes, Eliot basked in the moment, in the closeness, in how good Q felt inside him again after what felt like forever. Tears pricked behind his lids once again, and he banished them with a couple hard blinks and then focused on Q’s precious face. There was something angelic about him, transformed from melancholy to joy by this fusion of their bodies, and Eliot rolled his hips to set their rhythm before leaning down to kiss Quentin slow and thorough, tongue seeking past Q’s lips so El could be inside him too.

Of all the problems they’d ever had, sexual compatibility hadn’t been one of them. Quentin had been flexible, in all ways, and just as curious and willing as Eliot had been. Particularly after their kid left home.

Quentin moaned into Eliot’s mouth, keeping time with him, knowing Eliot’s body and turn-ons so well. He sucked Eliot’s tongue, pulling him in as if he could devour him. Squeezing Eliot’s ass cheeks, he pulled him down harder, rolled his hips back, and supported him to slide out and take him deeply again.

He reached up to take Eliot’s hands, entwining their fingers, pushing against each other, rocking the bed. Eliot floated somewhere outside his body for a moment, seeing it all, taking in the way Quentin fucked him, the flawless way they fit, the little needy sounds Q made that had always driven El crazy. Then he sank back into himself, and the pleasure hit him in a nearly irresistible wave. He growled as he fought back the urge to cum, not wanting to lose control yet when there was so much more he wanted to do.

With the logic of dreams, it seemed to Eliot as if he let go of his conscious effort to direct this, it would slip away from him entirely. It would end, and he would wake and—

Better never to think of that, never to acknowledge it. Better to submerge deeper into this moment, to live in it deeply, completely, and forever, the way his heart belonged to Quentin.

Clinging to Q’s hands—his beautiful, wonderful hands, hands that had mapped Eliot’s body in this bed so many nights—he worked faster, harder, working his hips to get Q where he wanted him, to take Q in all the way until their bodies were flush against each other, until Q couldn’t get any deeper. Eliot clenched around him then, rippling around him, glorying in the solid weight of Quentin’s hard cock inside him, piercing him, pervading him.

“Oh Q,” he whispered as he broke their kiss breathlessly and nibbled along Quentin’s smooth jaw. “Oh god, I’ve needed you. I just want you to fill me.” Eliot tightened his grip on Q’s hands, flexing their fingers against the pillows as he pinned Quentin and rode him. “C’mon, Q. Give Daddy what he needs.”

“Yes, god.” Quentin smiled up at Eliot before his eyes closed, and he groaned again in pleasure. This was always Quentin at his most real; he was most himself in the throes of passion, where nothing else could touch him. He seemed caught up in their movements, in shifting his hips just so, in struggling playfully against Eliot’s weight and grip. The vein at his temple throbbed as he kept working at Eliot.

His hands were so warm, it was almost like they were heating. A soft glow emanated from them, then Eliot felt that same warmth at where they were connected. Perhaps he also worried that letting go would end this moment.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Quentin protested, red-faced and breathless. “I want you inside of me. I need… I need you. Please.”

“As if I could say no to that.” Eliot grinned broadly as he lifted his hips slowly, Quentin’s cock slipping from Eliot’s body as Eliot knelt beside him. He flexed and clenched around nothing and then pulled his hands free from Quentin’s grasp so he could reach beneath Q’s knees and press them upward toward Quentin’s chest.

“Hold your legs, handsome,” he instructed, not letting go until Quentin complied. Then he shifted to rest on his knees between Quentin’s legs and admired the view from gleaming, swaying cock to heavy balls to Q’s dusky pink little hole.

“Look at you, Q. That’s all for me, isn’t it? You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?” As Eliot spoke, he stroked his own neglected cock, gaze flicking from Q’s body up to his flushed, glistening face, a face dearer to him than anything else in the world.

“Yes, Daddy.” Quentin blushed faintly, chuckling to himself. An echo of their past with Quentin grinning. “All for you. Come here. Give me what I need.”

Eliot remembered the first time they’d done this, how nervous Quentin had been, how much talking they’d done, how hard Eliot worked to relax Q enough to finally get inside him. And then that look of bliss that overtook Quentin once he’d let go and understood how good it could be. How after that Quentin invested all his trust in Eliot.

This was Eliot’s dream, but also Quentin’s attempt at closure. That he wanted Eliot inside him touched El’s heart, left him tingling all over.

Eliot’s fingers were slippery from his cock, and he stroked them across Q’s entrance, teasing him gently, testing him. Quentin opened for him easily, so ready, and Eliot pushed his fingers in smooth and steady, stretching Q and stroking inside him. When Quentin squirmed and made that choked little whine El loved, he pulled free his fingers and positioned his cock at Quentin’s opening.

Then he leaned forward to kiss Quentin, caressing their lips together as Eliot thrust forward and penetrated him deeply. Quentin gasped at the sensation, and Eliot devoured the sounds, took his breath, brushed their noses together as he trembled with emotion.

“So good, Q,” he whispered, wanting Quentin to know, wanting him to understand that no one else was ever going come close to this, not for Eliot. Voice creaking, he whispered, “Love you so much. Always loved you so much.”

“Love you so much. Loved our life together. I got—” Quentin shifted, settling in. “We got to have a real life. A taste of some normalcy, didn’t we?” He gazed up at Eliot, sweat beading his brow delicately, looking for some affirmation.

And they had. A life Eliot hadn’t even realized he’d wanted. Stability. Friendship.

And, on occasion, some truly kinky sex.

It had all been right there.

As if Quentin sensed Eliot’s mind wandering to regret, he pulled him in by his nape, kissing him so deeply it washed away everything else. He reached down to pull his cock in time with Eliot’s rhythm, and Eliot closed his eyes and let Quentin have his way.

As they kissed and breathed and moved, Eliot strained ever closer, losing himself in Quentin, in the flow of their bodies. It became a meditative act, unspoken prayer, their almost-silent pleas for absolution and a second chance. The darkness loomed again, somewhere deep inside Eliot, and he fought against the grief he couldn’t acknowledge, the truth that waited when he woke. Growing ever more desperate, Eliot fucked into Quentin ruthlessly, seeking refuge in Q’s taut, yielding body.

“Stay,” he begged, shameless now. “Stay stay _stay stay…”_

Their bodies became a messy collision of grunts and moans. Their mouths crashed, and Eliot tasted the bitter tang of Quentin’s blood. Or his own. He wasn’t even sure. He savored the taste as he savored this moment, trying to pin it down so it could stretch into eternity. He felt warm all over, as if the sun was shining down on them. Light flashed behind his eyes.

Quentin came first, loudly, expressively. His release spewed between them, searingly hot, and yet still Eliot prayed for Quentin to stay, babbling against his mouth and taking him utterly. As Quentin’s body tightened around Eliot, he cursed and pleaded, struggling to hold on, to make it last, but it was too much, too perfect.

Crying out, Eliot flew apart, falling through space, into Quentin, into the center of the universe. His body quaked as tremors wracked him, and he struggled to hold onto Quentin, to keep him close. That golden, sunny glow suffused them, soothing and promising only good. Eliot didn’t usually trust those good feelings, but this time he let it in, embraced it, offered himself up to it and let it flow through him and into Quentin as his cock throbbed and he spent himself so utterly it wrung him out.

He clung to Quentin in the aftermath, no longer begging him to stay aloud but thinking it just the same. It seemed so important, so vital, that he never let go again. Quentin clung back, but the world was growing dark again. Soon the warmth was gone, Quentin’s grip lessened, and Eliot became aware of pain in his belly. As he opened his eyes, he saw thatched roof beyond the bed’s gauzy canopy. He was on his back. Reaching down to press against the source of the pain, Eliot realized he was still clothed.

It had been a dream. A beautiful, wonderful dream. He’d heard people talk about visitations after a loved one died. He supposed he should be grateful Quentin had come, but he felt hollow.

A weight dipped the bed next to him; Margo must have returned and climbed in for a nap. Eliot reached over to take her hand, or something. He needed some comfort even if he would never tell Margo why. All he needed was for her to laugh it off.

Patting the body next to him, he felt nothing but skin. What? Margo didn’t generally sleep naked above the covers, though maybe being a werewolf made her more hot-blooded?

He turned his head, but instead of a dark, lush cascade of hair, much shorter, finer, sandy brown met his gaze. He’d recognize that noggin anywhere.

“Q?”

Quentin rolled over to face Eliot, eyes opening slowly. He smiled before his eyes widened in panic as he looked around. “What? How am I still here?”


	2. Is He Real? Does it Matter?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So is Eliot losing it or is Q really there? Margo consults.

Eliot threw his arms around Quentin, unwisely as sudden movements when you’re stitched together can be, but he didn’t even care. While Eliot half expected his arms to go through Quentin, they rested comfortably on the contours of his warm body.

“I’m not supposed to be here. I had a whole exit interview and… You know Penny’s really nice now? Death agrees with him. But I don’t think that—”

Eliot didn’t really care how nice Penny was or wasn’t with Quentin in his arms. He wasn’t going to let him go again for anything—until the door was banged so hard it wobbled.

“Shit! That’s probably Penny coming for me!”

“But—”

Penny had gone from nice to coming to steal Quentin away in typical Q fashion.

There was another ominous bang as Quentin struggled against Eliot. “I need to hide!”

That at least made some sense, so Eliot released him, but it was their shack. There wasn’t a wealth of hiding places.

Quentin scrambled under the bed like a scared cat while Eliot slowly stood, thinking through what battle magic he could use against the Underworld.

The third bang caused the door to open, but instead of Penny or minions of the Underworld, Margo was backing in through the door holding a tray of sizzling meat. She turned her head to take in Eliot standing there, hands at the ready to cast.

Her brows furrowed briefly as she looked him up and down. “Oh good, you’re awake. Did you have a nice eighteen-hour nap?”

“Yes. It was very…refreshing. I am…refreshed.” Eliot lowered his hands, uncertain what to do. Was he cracking up entirely? He moved to help Margo with the tray of food and then closed the door behind her. “Um. Bambi. I… Eighteen hours?”

“Yeah. And you must’ve been having some _good_ dreams. Good for you, not great for me to get any sleep.” She gave him a smirk as they settled the tray on the tiny table. “I was going to wake you up anyway because you need to eat.”

She gestured to the small morsels of meat and assorted greens. “I call it, ‘Rabbits who got the message that those not sending a message for me deserve to be dinner.’”

“Very queenly. I would expect nothing less of you.” Eliot cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper, “Margo, will you do something for me? Just…look under the bed.”

“You worried about monsters, El? Trust me, nothing, and I mean _nothing_ is going to get through those wards.” She caressed the side of his face and gave his chin a quick pinch. “You need to eat. There’s water, too. Looks like you two boneheads managed a well, which I assume was your idea. Come on, sit.”

Margo pulled out a chair and patted it as if Eliot was a child who needed comforting. He didn’t budge.

“Please, Margo? Just…look under the bed. Okay? Do that, and we can sit and eat. I’ll be a good little convalescent.”

“What am I gonna find, El? A lonely crusty sock from your dreaming last night? I got the message, I promise.” She sat down in the other chair and poured herself a cup of water. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m not in the mood for games right now. I did mention your moaning and thrashing made it hard to sleep, right?”

“For which inconvenience I am deeply penitent.” Eliot’s stomach churned. He glanced toward the bed where Quentin was still hiding. If it _was_ Quentin. If he was there. If it wasn’t Eliot’s desperate imagination. “It will take you less than a minute. Will you _please_ do it? Don’t make me debase myself for your amusement, Margo. I’m wounded. Physically. By your ice axe.”

She picked up what looked to be a rabbit leg and bit into it. She gave it a long chew as her stare bored into Eliot. “You mean the ice axe I had to get in order to rescue your possessed ass? Oh yes, I’m so _sorry_ about that.”

A battle of wills with Margo wasn’t going to do much good. She pointed at the rabbit. “Eat, and I’ll do it. Deal?”

“Deal.” He sulkily sank onto the chair opposite hers and reached for a piece of meat. His gut roiled with anxiety, but he ate anyway, mechanically, hardly tasting it. She hadn’t said he had to keep it down, at least.

After a moment, he remembered his manners. “Thank you, by the way, for…everything.” He sipped the clear, cool well water and added, “I really should make us some wine. I have a feeling I’m going to need wine very soon.”

“Of course you are.” She leaned in and patted his hand, then true to her word, she stood and made her way to the bed. Setting her left hand down on it, she bent down and peered for what felt like an unsettlingly long time. Then she looked back up at Eliot. “More dirt floor. Thank you for that, El. That was a view of the shack that truly needed to be shared.”

Bile rose in Eliot’s throat. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose. His heart plummeted. What could he say?

“So there’s…nothing under the bed?” Eliot’s voice carried a fine tremor despite his efforts to keep it steady. “I—” He sighed. “All right.”

“Hey. I just…” Her tone was placating, as if she was finally taking in how serious Eliot was. “What _should_ I be seeing?”

She looked again, this time on all fours. “What?”

She tilted her head to the right, then to the left, then to the right again. “Quentin?”

She crab-walked backwards into Eliot’s chair, then looked up at Eliot with a mix of shock and horror.

“You can see him?” Eliot fairly crowed, spirits surging. “He’s here? Is it—Your fairy eye can see him? Because _I_ can see him.” Eliot reached down to touch Margo’s shoulder, bracing her, and then called out, “Q? Margo’s not a harbinger of doom or Underworldly retrieval. You really should come out.”

“Yes, I saw him. Fuckin’ fairy eye.” She shook her head as she got up and started dusting off her clothes. “He’s down there cowering, covering his balls as if I haven’t seen all of that already.”

Quentin’s head popped out from under the bed, hair shaggy and rumpled as he looked around. He grabbed a sheet, covering his face briefly, then crawled out, draping the sheet over himself. “So I’m here.”

“Motherfucker.” Margo stared at him, then looked to Eliot. “What did you _do_ , El?”

“Um.” Eliot’s joy overflowed until he felt it pouring from his eyes, his ears, his nose. Glory just spilled out of him like the touch of god. “I think I may have sex magicked Q last night during his visitation. He was just supposed to say goodbye, but then one thing led to another…”

He patted his knee gleefully and looked at Q. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.”

“For eighteen hours?” Margo blinked at Eliot. “What kind of tantric—never mind. I don’t want to know.”

She moved to give Quentin a hug, but her arms flew through him. “Huh.”

Quentin looked worried, then confused as he padded over to Eliot. He gently put his hand on Eliot’s shoulder. It landed solidly and he gave it a squeeze. “So, um…”

“Or it’s my wards. I told you ain’t nuthin’ getting through.” Margo seemed quite proud of herself. “But what the hell? I get five minutes with my un-fished lover and now you get to bang it out with ghost boy? How is that fair?”

“What happened to Josh?” Quentin gently took a seat on Eliot’s leg since he’d continued to pat it until Q complied.

Eliot’s triumph soured at the thought of poor Hoberman. “Apparently we’re three hundred years in Fillory’s future, and Josh and Fen were overthrown by the ‘Dark King’ whoever that melodramatic asshole might be.”

He looked to Margo and frowned. “We will get him back. This time travel stuff… It’s all above my pay grade, but I will tell you this… Fillory puts you where she wants you. There’s a reason we’re here, and I don’t think it was _just_ so I could make beautiful tantric sex magic with Q’s ghost.”

Eying Quentin and slipping his arm around Quentin’s waist, he added, “And maybe we need Q to get Josh and Fen back, to restore the throne of Fillory. Q’s always been our ace in the sleeve for the Fillorian shit, right?”

“Yeah, time works differently here. It’s possible they got out and weren’t overthrown. I mean, I didn’t see them in the Underworld, so there’s something.” Quentin leaned in closer to Eliot. He traced patterns on Eliot’s nape, soft and reassuring, as if Quentin couldn’t get enough of touching Eliot, but didn’t want to gloat in front of Margo.

“That’s what I thought, but we have some very uncooperative rabbits. Or, we did. Whoever this Dark King is, he’s got everyone scared to go against him and none of these animals remembers High King Margo.” She moved back to the chair and flopped into it, then took a bite out of rabbit seemingly out of spite.

“Rabbits probably wouldn’t, but I bet longer lived animals would. Like, um, turtles?” Quentin turned to face Margo again.

“Oh, that’ll be a big help. Battle turtles.” Margo rolled her eyes, but it did appear she was thinking about it. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”

Quentin eyed the meat and shrugged. “I’m not. I don’t think I’m entirely corporeal.”

“So agenda is, find turtles, make Quentin a real boy?” Margo asked between bites.

“Find turtles, make Quentin a real boy. It’s as solid as any of our plans ever is.” Eliot smiled up at Quentin and then looked toward Margo, so happy to be with both of them at once again.

It had been so easy that first year after he met Q at Brakebills, the three of them spending so much time together. Q had latched onto them, needing guidance and friendship, and El had loved watching him open up slowly and settle into the school. It had seemed like they had all the time in the world.

Now, well. Eliot knew just how wishful his thinking had been.

After a moment of staring at them both, drinking them in with his eyes until he was satisfied, Eliot asked, “Turtles, or tortoises? I think there’s a difference.”

“I know you’re corporeal, El. Eat. You’re going to need it to heal and whatever tantric sex may be necessary to keep Quentin here.” She gave a half smirk as she sat back, apparently finished with her meal. “We should probably see if we can get close enough to figure out who this Dark King is, see what we’re up against.”

Eliot picked at the food obligingly, not wanting to stress Margo further, and snuggled against Q as he ate. It was easier to take care of himself knowing Q and Margo were counting on him, that they were _here_. He’d grown very thin while the Monster was driving, and he probably was weaker than usual even before the ice axe took a chunk out of his guts.

Maybe it was the fact Margo had seasoned the rabbit with vengeance, but it certainly whetted El’s appetite, and once he started eating, he didn’t want to stop. Whatever he’d done last night in his sleep, whatever magic he’d unleashed, it had drained him. Still, with Q on his lap and Margo watching approvingly as he ate, it was impossible to feel anything but reluctantly hopeful.

Around a mouth of food, Eliot muttered, “I think, first off, anyone who calls himself the ‘Dark King’ is just looking to get owned.”

Eliot knew it would be so much more complicated than that, but honestly.

“And you said it was a three-hundred-year reign? Must be a magician, right? And Margo, your human eye couldn’t see me? Maybe I could do the recon?” Quentin stroked Eliot’s back. It felt so nice, domestic. Like old times in some ways, only now… Well, their goal wasn’t right outside the door anymore. But Q was still just as eager to contribute.

Margo nodded. “That’s true, but we don’t know how you’re here, and I don’t think Eliot is going to be cool with us risking your dead ass so soon after he pinned you down with his dick. He’ll want to go with you, and he can’t do that until he’s healed.”

She looked out the small window. “And, the wards may have something to do with it. Might be safer to see if I can locate some turtles. Tortoises. Whatever. And if they remember me, great. If not, well, soup will be on.”

“Mm turtle soup. Very Victorian,” Eliot murmured approvingly. “I was looking for an excuse to wear a cravat.”


	3. High King of Quentin’s Ass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Today was sunny and beautiful, the Fillorian breeze smelled of evergreens and opium, and Quentin Makepeace Coldwater was getting his adorable ass eaten.”

They spent the next few days working on healing spells for Eliot…and realizing their combined knowledge of tortoises in Fillory was limited to Eliot having conflated Discworld with Fillory. He was, in a word, devasted by the dawning understanding there was no Great A’Tuin to meet. Not here, anyway. Not that Eliot had ever read Discworld personally—he had, in fact, been disappointed to discover it was not _Disco_ world—but he’d thought he was contributing something.

Margo had been completely baffled. Fortunately, turbo-nerd ghost boy Quentin was present to straighten things out for both of them.

Unfortunately, Q was also fading.

After a breakfast of eggs of unknown origin (which Margo had procured by means no one wanted to discuss) she stood. “All right. I think Q needs a re-up on dick magic. Being that I cannot partake without spreading my awesome lupine condition to you two, I’m going to go find some fucking turtles.”

At least she seemed persuaded that would work. Eliot wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t against trying. Sharing one bed with the three of them had been…crowded…and Eliot hadn’t been in any shape to do more than handjobs anyway.

Before she left, Margo added, “Maybe leave the shack. See what’s up with the wards.”

Eliot saluted her as she departed and then turned his gaze on Quentin’s slightly transparent form. “Well, it sounds like we have our marching orders.”

He rose from his chair and pressed his hand reflexively to his wound. It was better than it had been, but it was by no means back to normal. Margo couldn’t do it all on her own, and Q’s magical abilities were somewhat limited by the fact his manifestation, such as it was, continued to weaken. The idea Q might disappear again scared Eliot shitless, but it seemed for now as if engaging in regular sexual activity of some sort would maintain his existence on this plane.

Eliot was good with that, because frankly he had no intentions of going without Q-centric sexual activity ever again. They’d remained good together into their seventies in their alternate timeline, and El fully anticipated fifty more years of extremely vigorous, inventive, and morally ambiguous fucking.

“So…” Eliot motioned toward the door. “Shall we?”

He and Q hadn’t had a chance to do it in the sunlight yet—at least this lifetime—and with Margo’s wards being what they were… Well. Best to re-up Q immediately before trying them.

Eliot got the door for Q, whose ghostly hands would pass right through it, and they stepped out into the beautiful Fillorian weather. It didn’t seem as if anyone really came around this way these days, but if they did, well… El was up for some exhibitionism, and no one could see Q anyway, so it was really El’s decision to make.

“Seems less romantic when it’s _mandatory._ ” Quentin walked through the door and peered around. He seemed to be acutely aware of where the wards were. “Hey, remember when we thought the beauty of all life might somehow be expressed by a lot of jizz on the mosaic?”

Not their finest hour, but it had been a diverting way to spend the afternoon, jerking each other off onto the squares that had so vexed them. “Apparently we were using your dick magic the wrong way.”

Eliot snorted delicately and slipped his arm around Q’s waist as he guided him over to the grid to look on that artifact of their former life. “Ah, good times. Not the next day when we had to clean all the tiles, but…” He nuzzled Q’s hair and then whispered, “Just because it’s mandatory doesn’t mean I can’t put you in the mood first…”

He spun Q in a little circle in his arms until Q’s back was to him and Q was nestled close, El’s hands splayed low across Q’s abs. He hummed Depeche Mode in Q’s ear, not entirely certain Q even knew the song but trusting to the inalienable seductive qualities of the _Violator_ album. He swayed with Q to the music he made and rubbed his lips against the soft, velvet shell of Q’s ear. “ _Let me take you on a trip… around the world and back… and you won’t have to move, you just sit still_.”

It was evident that Quentin was _not_ going to just sit still. He swayed with the serenade, ass sliding seductively over Eliot’s hardening cock. “ _Now let your mind do the walking…and let my body do the talking…_ ”

Of course Quentin knew the song, little emo boy that he was. He put his hands over Eliot’s, sliding them over his length as he groaned. Already hardening up. He loved how easy Quentin was if you knew just where in his ear to whisper.

Plus, last Eliot had checked, Quentin had never minded following orders in bed.

Even as they moved together, Quentin seemed to brighten up, feeling more solid in Eliot’s arms. Eliot kissed Quentin’s neck and crooned, _“Let me show you the world in my eyes…”_

He hummed the interlude, dancing with Q around the mosaic, hands roving Q’s body and over his cock, teasing and lavishing him with the affection they both needed. It had been that as much as anything else that drew them together at the start, hadn’t it? Q was so insecure, so sensitive, and he needed the affirmation of physical touch, while El had just been so starved of love growing up that now he had a constant, low-grade-but-desperate craving for it.

And it was so good with Q. Sometimes someone’s brand of neediness didn’t match up with El’s properly and they exhausted each other, but Quentin was so giving, always offering himself up with both hands, and all he wanted in return was to be loved, to be deemed good enough.  

_“I’ll take you to the highest mountain…”_ El rubbed his cheek against Quentin’s as he sang, voice pitched low and soothing, its vibrato alone betraying Eliot’s growing arousal. “ _To the depths of the deepest sea…_ ”

Quentin turned around in Eliot’s arms and slid his hands up to cup Eliot’s face. “ _And we don’t need a map, believe me._ ”

He rolled up to his toes to catch Eliot in a kiss, frotting against him, undulating, definitely letting his body do the moving while Eliot’s hands did the soothing.

Going for Eliot’s waistband, Quentin quickly undid the belt, leaving it open and jangling as they continued their very dirty dancing. Eliot gave up on singing entirely and went with Q’s moods, letting Q’s excitement carry him along. Few things had ever been as interesting to Eliot as Quentin’s lust, always so carefully controlled, so hesitant, and when Q unleashed it…

Well, it was intoxicating, and Eliot had a known penchant for intoxicants.

He kissed Quentin with heart racing and that golden glow once more suffusing him. Here in the sunlight, wide awake, he still radiated a certain power he’d never had before—at least, not that he was aware of. So weird, he thought, but he could only be grateful for it, for whatever was keeping Q in his arms and out of the Underworld.

_“That’s all there is,”_ he sang softly, nibbling along Quentin’s jaw as Q freed Eliot’s cock and grasped it in his greedy hand. _“Nothing more than you can feel now, that’s all there is.”_

El’s breath caught, and he thrust into Q’s grip and kneaded Quentin’s perfect ass with a happy, choked little sound. “You want me inside you right here? Under the sun, bare to the sky, here where it all really started? Just say yes, Q. I’ll take such good care of you.”

Quentin’s gaze flitted around briefly, then it seemed to occur to him that he wouldn’t be seen. Possibly neither of them would, not that it mattered as far as Eliot was concerned. “Yes. I want that.”

He wrapped his fingers around Eliot’s cock, pulling it firmly, rubbing his thumb over the head, catching the tip, teasing him with just the right amount of pressure. Such was the luxury of really getting to know someone and their preferences. God, he knew Eliot’s body too well.

With his other hand, he pushed Eliot’s trousers down. “You just love that you’ve got a magic dick, don’t you, El?”

Quentin beamed up at him, acutely aware of exactly what he was doing to Eliot. Eliot wanted to roll his eyes and act nonchalant, but Quentin was really good at manipulating him in bed. It was highly unfair and extremely arousing.

“No more than you do,” Eliot returned with a little snark, grateful to the fates he’d managed to say something with a modicum of wit when all the blood had rushed to his cock. It pulsed in Q’s nimble hand, precum dripping from the slit. “Oh, better get that, Q. Can’t waste any of my magical spunk.”

“No, certainly not. Who knows what ghosts you might unearth if anything gets wasted?” Quentin’s eyes sparkled as he sank down to his knees. He nuzzled Eliot’s cock, dragging his pointed tongue up the shaft, then twirled away the moisture. He wrapped his lips around the head, taking him shallowly, holding the base securely as he gazed up at Eliot. “Can’t have you bringing back anyone else and having to compete.”

“As if I’d ever,” Eliot retorted breathily as he fisted his hand in Quentin’s hair. It wasn’t as long as it had been in their time together, and he missed Q’s ponytail and the handhold it had provided. He prayed they had time and opportunity for him to grow it out again.

Then Quentin bobbed his mouth over Eliot’s cock, and it was all he could do to stay standing. His knees buckled, and he willed himself upright.

“Q,” he whispered, hushed now as real emotion rushed to his lips. “I never… There was never anyone I…” He couldn’t articulate, and he tightened his hand in Q’s hair in frustration, pulling a little and letting his head drop as he shivered with pleasure. After a beat, he rasped, “There’s no one else for me but you, even if your middle name makes me seriously roll my eyes.”

It wasn’t quite what Q deserved for the astoundingly good head he was giving, but it was what El had to give.

Quentin pushed Eliot back, then pulled him down to his knees as Quentin stood, using El’s shoulders as a boost. He bit his lip as he undid his jeans. “If you’re going to be mean about my name, I’m going to put your mouth to better use.”

From above, Quentin toyed with Eliot’s hair with one hand as Q pulled himself from his pants. He gazed down at El fondly. “Could’ve visited Julia. Or Alice. Or anyone. But I… you… we…”

Quentin sounded a little choked up, then sniffed and rolled his eyes. “I had to go for the magic dick.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of Eliot’s head fondly. El closed his eyes and breathed, letting that heal something broken inside him. Quentin had always been good at mending.

“Julia is a former goddess, and Alice is an extremely powerful magician, but you’re right. Neither of them has a magic dick.” Eliot paused thoughtfully and added, “That I know of.”

He smiled as he grasped Q by the hips and rubbed his stubbled cheek against Q’s straining cock. Q always liked a little rough treatment, a little burn against tender skin, and then Eliot chased the tingle with the flat of his tongue before swallowing Q down once. He backed off and swallowed him again, taking Q deep into his throat, reminding Q of everything Quentin had ever said about Eliot’s superior blowjobs.

Not that it was fair comparing tiny little Alice to Eliot’s entirely larger mouth, jaw, throat, and person, but she had those tits—and, admittedly, a prodigious intellect—and Eliot felt he had the right to make use of his advantages too, namely his lack of gag reflex and profound knowledge of sex magic.

Quentin gripped him by the shoulders, steadying himself as he fucked Eliot’s mouth. That seemed to drive everyone else from Q’s thoughts. Like this, Eliot could count on Quentin not overthinking.

“Mm, yes.” Quentin fisted El’s hair, holding him in place, moaning loudly, but El knew Quentin didn’t want to come like this. He liked to come with Eliot inside of him if they were going to fuck, and Eliot wasn’t ever going to argue with that.

Q stopped pumping, and Eliot tightened his fingers around the base of Quentin’s dick, stopping his release. Then he twisted Quentin around by his hips, catching him as he half tripped over his own feet.

“Easy there, Makepeace,” Eliot teased as he leaned in to bite Quentin’s ass cheek. This wasn’t sex magic, really, but he’d promised to put Q in the mood, and there was nothing like a little ass-kissing to improve Q’s outlook.

He’d been so uptight about it at first— _freaked out_ , to be accurate—but Eliot knew his way around supposedly straight boys, and Q had succumbed readily enough to persistent, shameless interest. Once Q figured out how good that naughty little place could feel, he’d melted every time since.

The moment Quentin figured out what El was doing, he whimpered and braced his feet wider so he didn’t fall, so eager for it that Eliot could only grin and nibble his way closer to Q’s center. After everything Quentin had been through with the Monster, with the rejection, with…everything, he deserved some pampering. Eliot was going to give it to him.

“Spread yourself,” Eliot demanded between nibbles, moving vertically instead of horizontally until Quentin, whining softly, complied. That little pained sound he made left Eliot’s cock throbbing, but there’d be time for that later. Today was sunny and beautiful, the Fillorian breeze smelled of evergreens and opium, and Quentin Makepeace Coldwater was getting his adorable ass eaten.

As Quentin held his cheeks spread with each hand, Eliot nuzzled between them, rubbing his stubble against the tender skin. Quentin tensed and squirmed, and Eliot just grinned and licked his way around Quentin’s rim, lapping at his little pucker relentlessly until Quentin’s toes were curling and he pushed helplessly back into the pressure of Eliot’s tongue. El kept his hands on Quentin’s hips, helping him stay steady, controlling the pace and how much Q could push—although he loved when Q was pushy. It was fucking sexy when Quentin just couldn’t help himself, when he just needed Eliot too much to care how embarrassed he was.

And Q was always embarrassed. He blushed bodily, skin warm and pink all the way down his torso. Fifty years, and he still hadn’t gotten over it. Eliot reveled in being wicked, sybaritic, depraved, but Quentin was a _nice boy_ and he still couldn’t wrap his head around just how _bad_ he was for Eliot.

And El… Well, he lived for that power trip. Maybe he wasn’t High King of Fillory anymore, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t High King of Quentin’s Ass.

Quentin opened for him so readily, letting Eliot lick his way inside, letting him fuck him slow and deep with his tongue. Quentin’s desperate little noises and steadily squirming hips just made El bury his face deeper into Quentin’s cleft and work him that much harder. He devoured Quentin utterly, his thoughts consumed with how much he needed to keep this, how good Quentin made him feel about himself, about his place in the world, about the future, _their_ future…

With a growl, Eliot dragged Quentin down to his knees and released his hips to work the lubrication spell. Then Eliot grasped himself at the root and positioned his cock just so against Quentin’s spit-slick, petal soft entrance, the pink flesh flexing and flinching, grasping at him as he thrust inside.

Eliot groaned in bliss as Quentin’s needy body pushed and pulled at him, biting Quentin’s shoulder to muffle the shout that wanted to wrench from his throat. He closed his eyes and breathed, sinking deeper into Quentin’s body and deeper into himself as he summoned that frenetic power that had helped make Quentin real in this place. He couldn’t pinpoint what had done it, what individual act of will had made it so, but he intended to bring every last fiber of his being to bear on this one perfect, necessary thing.

“Keep breathing,” he whispered to Quentin, knowing how sometimes Q would hold his breath, overwhelmed when Eliot was deep inside him. “It’s always better if you keep breathing. Breathe for me, Q.”

Eliot wrapped his arm around Quentin’s chest and pressed one hand over his heart, marking his breaths, and then breathed in time. Slow and deliberate, he synced their movements, their bodies, their systems, and then he felt some enigmatic force activate, like the world itself was responding to their presence. Like Fillory, like the Mosaic, was reaching out to them.

Quentin’s breathing stuttered like he felt it too, and Eliot hugged him closer and kept his rhythm, fucking into Quentin’s beautifully yielding body with the heady sense of falling into the sky. Sweat beaded on their skin under the bright sun, and Eliot licked away a rivulet that coursed down Quentin’s nape. It tasted real, like salt, like Q, and his body had gone solid again, fully realized down to the last marvelous detail, every hair on his head gleaming in the sunshine.

So maybe it wasn’t the cum, but it was something. When they were fused like this, something came alive in this place, came alive _inside_ them.

It didn’t matter, though. None of it mattered. Q was safe, and Eliot had kept his promise.

Letting his more primal senses take over, Eliot pushed Quentin forward onto all fours and squared up, kneeling behind him, careful of the half-healed wound in his side. He reached forward to grab a handful of Q’s hair and then pulled, making Q arch his back, making him writhe onto Eliot’s cock where it pierced him.

“Mine,” Eliot told him, voice dark with hunger and that thread of desperation that hadn’t left him since the Monster had. “Mine, mine, _mine¸ mine.”_

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” Quentin repeated over and over again, pushing back against Eliot, his body tensing and releasing. He balanced on one hand and reached to his own cock, stroking in time with the rhythm of their bodies.

Seeing Quentin’s back like that, the delicate, beautiful arch he held to keep himself available to Eliot like this, sparked some fresh heaven in Eliot’s soul. Then Quentin looked over his shoulder at Eliot with something needy in his gaze, as if confirming it was Eliot there, that Eliot knew Quentin belonged to him.

More literally now, wasn’t it? Than it had been in the past, when Eliot had been sharing Quentin with women or the memories of women. Perhaps surprisingly the responsibility for keeping Quentin safe and here wasn’t one El even considered shrinking from. No, Quentin had slipped through his fingers once, and that was never going to happen again.

Eliot’s love had been so intense, and Quentin so brave in remaining on the frontline with the Monster, it sometimes seemed as if even the Monster was falling for Q.

Quentin bucked, rhythm a little off. He was getting close, the greedy boy.

“So good,” Eliot assured him, fucking him harder just because he knew how Q liked it. “You feel so good, Quentin. You gonna make me fill you up, aren’t you? Oh god, oh god.” Eliot’s voice faltered, his thrusts faltered, and he shuddered hard. Just _saying_ it made him wanna spend, and Q’s soft, breathy little sounds were fucking killing El.

He reached around to join his hand with Quentin’s, stroking his cock and keeping them both coordinated as the overwhelming pleasure threatened to short out both their brains. It was all instinct now—instinct and that strange magic that enveloped them. Gasping and grunting, Eliot drove them both toward the edge, and his thoughts became nothing but _love you love you love you Q_ until it all ran together and every breath was just confirmation of that foregone conclusion.

“Love you, Q,” he murmured then, the stream of consciousness spilling from his lips as he spilled into Q’s body, as Q spilled over his fingers.

Quentin collapsed in a heap as Eliot subsided atop him. Heat and the humidity of their sweaty bodies suffused them like ozone. Instead of smelling of sex, it was petrichor, the smell of rain on dry land. It was as if their bodies were waking up.

“Love you, too.” Quentin stretched across the soft patch of ground and seemed to glory in his afterglow.

Magic dick, indeed.

Eliot suspected there was more to it than that. They’d had their share of sex, but it was never like this. He felt both drained and energized. Exhausted, but like he wanted to take over the world, which was their long-term goal.

But no need to rise from his puddle of Quentin anytime too soon.

Except… they did need to test the wards, see what effect they had on Quentin. Likely as not, he wouldn’t be able to pass through. Margo was right that the wards might be preventing Quentin from being dragged to the Underworld, but they had to know one way or the other.

When Eliot had sufficiently regained his faculties, he rolled off Quentin onto his back and pulled his clothes back into order. Then he sprawled, basking in the sunshine and this unexpected but wholly welcome interlude. Sighing, he reached out to twine his fingers with Quentin’s and said, “I guess we should see what happens if you try to breach the wards. But I’m going to hold your hand while you do it. If anything goes awry, I’ll be here.”

Grimacing at the twinge in his side, Eliot sat up and then leaned over to kiss Q once again, lingering with their lips just brushing. “I want you, Q. I’m choosing you. This. Us. Maybe I’m late to the party, but… I’m sure, now.” Eliot drew back to look into his eyes. “So fight to stay, because I’m fighting to keep you.”

“I’ve been fighting to stay since we met.”

Of course, meeting Eliot had coincided with Quentin learning about magic, which hadn’t been a cure for depression, exactly, but had mostly seemed to occupy Quentin enough.

So it was true, and sweet to say, but they both knew it wasn’t entirely love at first sight.

Though, Eliot had registered the way Q had looked at him, his pupils dilating before he even knew what he was in for. Interest, for sure. But then he started his big brain working on things, and well… They were here now, and that was what was important.

Quentin’s expression sobered. “I guess now I decide what body part I’m willing to risk to pierce the ward? You think I have enough hair to maybe get a little trim if it’s, you know… bitey?”

“No, definitely not. You need to grow that mop back out. I miss your little ponytail. It was so cute.” Eliot smiled a little and tugged at Q’s hand. “Plus it’s attached to your noggin, and I’d like to keep that intact. Maybe risk your pinky toe or something. We can always give you a new one of those via magic, should it come to that.”

Standing, Eliot helped Q up and assisted Q in neatening his clothes. He needed to look good in case something went wrong. Or right. Or just regardless.

Then Eliot motioned to Q to precede him since he wasn’t as keenly attuned to Margo’s wards as Q seemed to be.

“It’s kind of pretty, actually. You remember at the end of the last Harry Potter movie where they all joined in putting together a ward to protect Hogwarts?” Q paused at a spot that seemed almost arbitrary to Eliot. He reached straight up with his hand. “She made it square, though, from two triangles, which is a lot more practical and probably has more structural integrity than an arch.”

Eliot could tell it was there only because a mysterious wind accompanied it. It blew the fine strands of Quentin’s hair around gently. He didn’t remember the Harry Potter movies at all, but he’d take Q’s word on it.

“So, toes it is, I guess. Your wife didn’t have any; maybe that’s just your thing.” Quentin shot Eliot a smirk before testing his foot against the ward. “Hm, doesn’t hurt…” He pulled his foot back. “Still attached. Tingles a bit. Feels like something’s happening, but I’m not sure what.”

Eliot wanted to say something clever and hilarious, but he was too anxious to come up with more than, “Oh, so you’re confused? That’s nothing new. Anyway, Margo would have told us if she’d put any nasty surprises in the wards, right?”

Of course she would’ve. Margo might be salty about losing Hoberman for the time being, but she wouldn’t sabotage El and Q.

He squeezed Quentin’s hand, released it, and stepped through to the other side himself without feeling even a twinge of magic. Whatever was there seemed to affect Q far differently.

“Come through, Quentin Coldwater!” El called teasingly, hoping they weren’t writing a bigger check than his magic dick could cash.

“Yeah. I think it’s more a matter of not really knowing what I am, so she wouldn’t know if there were nasty surprises. She wasn’t expecting an Underworld escapee. No one saw that one coming.” Quentin gave a wan smile as he pressed his hand to the ward.

As it came through, he appeared to dissolve.

“No!” Eliot hurled himself at Quentin, knocking him back through the ward into the safe space behind it. He grasped at Quentin’s arm and stared at his hand only to realize it was fine.

Q looked bemused, so Eliot explained, “When you… it disappeared. I couldn’t see you outside the ward. Did it hurt? Are you okay?”

“It tingled a little. I could still see my hand and you on the other side.” Quentin looked at his arm along with Eliot, flexing it. It was completely solid, good as new. Well, new in the way that post-sex made him, apparently. “So I guess the wards are keeping something of me here? It didn’t feel any different, but maybe going outside of them I’d vanish? We need to know what these wards work on. Maybe that’ll give us a clue what I am?”

“I don’t know… Margo said they were pretty comprehensive, like… Nothing getting in or getting out. While she is somewhat given to exaggeration, I suspect in this case it’s a combination of the wards, and well, this place.” Eliot rubbed his thumb over Quentin’s hand as if it might disappear again, studying it and then the cottage. “After everything… Something of us has to linger in this place, doesn’t it? We weren’t here in this timeline, and yet… the Mosaic was solved, Jane Chatwin got the key, _we_ got the key…”

Trailing off, Eliot resisted the urge to massage his temples. Fucking time travel.

Then he refocused. “It was our lives, the _beauty_ of our lives together, that provided the crucial component to solve the puzzle, right? Something that strong doesn’t just vanish, Q. I don’t…” Eliot shook his head and licked his lips. “I don’t pretend to know exactly what’s going on, but I think this place has a lot to do with it. When I came here with Margo, I was just thinking…this is home. This place is home. If you were going to haunt anywhere, Q, your spirit would be strongest here, with me, wouldn’t it?”

Not that Q really seemed like a classic ghost. He had form and substance, at least with Eliot.

“It’s the place I lived the longest.” Quentin appeared to be giving it thought, eying the building briefly, then back to Eliot. “If you’d asked, I probably would’ve said the Physical Kids Cottage. But that’s not in Fillory, and I spent more time here. But what both places have in common are you. This place… it’s a place. But I didn’t come here to haunt it. I came to see you.”

He rolled his thumb over Eliot’s hand, almost soothingly. “But there definitely is something about this place. About the time we spent here. And… we did do a lot of sex magic.”

Quentin blushed faintly as he looked down. “We could try to dig up some of those old books. I don’t remember us doing anything that would be…you know, we always kind of avoided those that seemed…binding.”

“We did, except when we _didn’t_.” Eliot’s cheeks and ears suddenly felt very warm. Was he blushing? How was that possible? Eliot Waugh did not blush.

At Quentin’s baffled look, Eliot confessed, “Look, we avoided the sex magic that revolved around…traditional romantic commitment, but some of what we did… I mean, we were already such close friends, and we’d… We’d dedicated to raising Teddy together. We spilled blood, sweat, tears, and spunk together here, and I can only guess that the Mosaic itself is an extremely powerful magical artifact. Maybe some of that… Y’know. It was…”

That still wasn’t what Eliot needed to say. He was still avoiding the crux of it. Avoiding Quentin’s searching stare, he murmured, “Magic is about intent, too, and that life we had together…my intent was for us never to be parted.”

“Well…” Quentin turned bright red as he averted his gaze, toeing at the dirt. It looked like he was trying to control his expression, but his huge grin kept breaking through.

Quentin Coldwater smiling like that was as rare as Eliot blushing, so it was a banner day in a number of ways. “That’s definitely not what you _said_ your intent was.”

Quentin seemed honestly delighted, but he shoved his hands in his pockets as if he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

Had Eliot done that to him? Made him believe that he wouldn’t welcome Quentin reaching out?

“Look, Q…” Eliot’s heart twinged, and he extended his hand to catch Q by the belt loop, tugging him in closer until Eliot could nestle his chin atop Q’s silky head. “I’m not good at feelings, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have them. I just…make it a habit never to want what I can’t get. You…”

Sighing, Eliot whispered, “Even when we were like sixty, I was convinced some sassy widow was going to come along and you’d want me to share you again.”

He wrapped one arm around Quentin’s back and held him there, the sunlight beating down on them, the broad sky blue and beautiful above as white clouds scudded across its expanse. He closed his eyes against that beauty to focus solely on the perfection he held close against him, far more precious and fragile. “I never really believed you’d choose me, if you had a choice. So… I couldn’t give the impression I was choosing you either. But I did, Q. And the magic knew it.”

Quentin melted against Eliot, sliding his arms around him, holding him almost too tightly for his injury, but Eliot didn’t want to break the moment. Feeling Quentin cling to him like that made the pain worth it.

“Arielle was… I mean, yes, I wanted a son. It just seemed like…I wasn’t trying to make you share me. It just felt like…like you didn’t… like I was too much for you. Maybe I was. I may have wanted too much too soon from you. That’s… you know, it’s been brought to my attention that I do that.”

Eliot shifted to nuzzle into Q’s face, kissing the corner of his eye and down his cheek. “I was so afraid to invest in you that I made you think I didn’t even want to. I’m… I’m sorry for that, Q.” He exhaled against Q’s lips and kissed him softly before opening his eyes to look at him. “That first day, after we… When we’d been here a year, and you wanted to talk about it… I thought you were going to freak out on me, and I shut it down because I couldn’t deal with your regrets and identity panic. It had been so good for me, and I just wanted it to have been good for you. So when you let it drop, I was just…so relieved I never wanted to talk about it again. But that—”

Eliot bit his lip and searched Q’s face. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to do it every day before that and every day after. It doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you all the damn time, or that I wasn’t fighting so hard not to fall for you that it took up every ounce of my strength. And when we were finally just…just us, and we were experimenting and doing everything I’d ever wanted to do with you, I maybe exerted my will on the idea of us as… You know.”

Though Q hung on every word, Eliot couldn’t bring himself to just say it. “It’s too stupid to even put words to, even now, but….” He breathed deeply, glancing again at Q’s rapt expression.

Q deserved to hear it, didn’t he? To know what he’d meant to Eliot?

“Without Margo, I was… She’s like my platonic life partner. And that position’s, you know, it’s filled. It was filled before you met me. But this… Q, this”—Eliot gestured between them—“has never been platonic. I wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you. And if Margo’s my platonic life partner, then you’re my true love. That’s what I put into that magic we worked here. That’s what was in my heart.”

Quentin closed his eyes, seeming to glow softly even beyond the bright sun shining on him. He cupped the side of Eliot’s face and gazed up at him, drunk on emotion.

“What I wanted from you was unrealistic. It—I think it played out how it had to, painful as it was.” He moved to his toes and kissed Eliot tenderly, then nuzzled his face. “It was what was in my heart, too. I just didn’t want to scare you away being so intense. That doesn’t scare you anymore, does it?”

Eliot inhaled deeply and shrugged a little. “I’m still scared shitless, but I’m… I’m gonna be brave for you, Q. Like you were brave for me.”

“Don’t let me become an obligation.” Q stared up at him, an edge of sadness in his eyes, but also true understanding and adoration. “I don’t want to be that. I had a good life. If this gets to be… just tell me, all right?”

“No.” Eliot grasped Q at the waist, big hands folding around Q’s skinny body. He stared into those melancholy eyes, so soulful, so sweet. “Not an obligation, Q. Never that. You’re here because I needed you to be. Because I willed you to be.” He blinked hard as he remembered what it had been like living in a Q-less world, trying to stem the tide of grief that threatened. Voice pinched, he added, “I don’t want to ever live without you again. I’m not letting you go.”

“Let’s just check in sometimes. Make sure this is… you know? Not dysfunctional.” Quentin hugged Eliot again, burying his face in his chest, again gripping too tightly, but Eliot loved that Q was here, even if he hurt him a bit.

Someone with a very feminine voice cleared her throat. Too high to be Margo, plus Margo would just walk in. When Eliot looked up, he saw Alice standing primly at what must’ve been the edge of the ward.

Instead of her usual stick-straight light blond, her hair was curled in 50s vintage fashion. He’d heard she’d joined the Library, was running it even. And now she stood there, looking like a pin-up girl, holding a stack of books. “Did someone say dysfunctional?”

 


	4. Alice Explains Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all so complicated.

Quentin turned around, hearing Alice’s voice. There was a vestigial urge to hide or push Eliot away as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. Technically, he hadn’t broken up with her, but they hadn’t entirely sorted out what they were, and—

It was all so complicated.

“Um, hello, Alice. You look, um. Nice.”

She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, standing a little taller as she did when she tried to work herself up to be brave. “So it’s true. You really are here.”

Ah, right. So she couldn’t see him. Probably not hard to figure out where he was with Eliot standing there with his arms probably looking like they were hugging air.

“Hey, Alice.” Eliot sounded like his usual nonchalant self, but his arms tightened on Quentin protectively. “How’s the Library business going?”

She set the books down and pushed her glasses back, then she held up an enchanted lens to peer through, which apparently made it possible for her to see Quentin. She took a quick, sharp breath; her brow furrowed, and the corners of her lips turned down.

“It’s a lot of chaos. Lot of people resistant to changes, but I think it’s more dangerous to let people bumble around without knowledge. Leads to a lot of _unexpected consequences_.” Alice said the words pointedly, though not that bitterly.

“You’re opening the Library? That’s great. Really great.” With Alice able to see him, actively staring at him in Eliot’s embrace, Quentin felt…well, _guilty_.

What was the protocol for dying on your girlfriend and then being resurrected by your, well, life partner? Husband? They’d never really labeled their relationship, which was another part of what made things between he and Eliot so confusing.

Before Quentin tried to push away from Eliot, Alice put the lens back in her pocket.

“It is. There are obviously some things that aren’t safe, might require more screening. I’ve been pretty busy trying to figure out which ones to declassify, but I did see your book pop back up a few days ago.” Alice folded her arms and looked down. “I wasn’t going to look. I was… After the grief, I got…really angry with you, Quentin. We went in there to be a team. You should’ve… _We_ could’ve… Maybe if we’d… I had to watch you _die_ , Quentin. It was—”

“I know.” Quentin thought back to when Alice killed the Beast, how she’d left her body, died, become a whole other creature. Eliot had held him then, but Quentin knew _exactly_ how she must’ve felt. How many times she must’ve gone over everything, if she could’ve done something differently. The survivor’s guilt. “I know, Alice. It wasn’t fair. And I’m sorry I didn’t visit you—”

She held up her hand. “It’s not about that, Quentin. It’s really not. I don’t— We tried. And I love you, I really do, but we’re a disaster together.”

Eliot made a soft, surprised sound and shifted closer. Quentin couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to. El had a death grip on him, and his usually soft, hazy doe eyes were laser focused on Alice. “I’ll take good care of him, Alice. Better than I did before. You grew up some while you were a monster, and I did too.”

Though she held herself stiffly, carefully, as if trying not to come apart, Alice nodded. “I read the…epilogue, I guess. So much is a mystery still, even to me, but I know you’re good for each other. Q, I—” Alice looked at him, or in his direction, shifting her weight awkwardly. “You’re not a ghost. I’m not sure there’s even a name for what you are.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. What am I? How can I be here?” Quentin rested against Eliot, relieved to have him to lean on—and relieved Alice wouldn’t exactly see it. He glanced down at the books, needing to look anywhere but at her. This version of her was a stranger.

“Those questions are for real. Not sure if I’m on the right track or not, but these books… Well, they’re something.” She wrapped her arms around herself in Quentin’s peripheral vision. “I’m not really supposed to be doing this, but I’m in charge, so who’s going to fire me?”

Eliot’s dark little chuckle simultaneously irritated and soothed Quentin. He leaned his head against Quentin’s, the gesture unmistakably possessive. “Command looks good on you, Alice. You know, all that knowledge at your fingertips… This is what you were meant for, isn’t it? What you missed, when you came back.”

From being a Niffin, El meant. The knowledge of the universe, of magic, she’d accrued as a Niffin and lost so quickly after Quentin made her human once more. Now she had it back. All she’d had to do was watch Quentin die.

“It’s part of what I missed.” She looked wistful, but not angry. “I think I can do some good there. Make a difference, or at least make some sense of it all.”

She kept her gaze on Eliot, who was all she could really see, though she likely understood where Quentin was.

“I just wanted to… I want to help. I love Quentin. We both do. I want to see you happy, and you and I, we’re happy together, but not like that.” She gestured at Eliot and how he was holding Quentin. “That was good. Don’t get me wrong. But I meant what I said before we went into the mirror world. We’re a good team, Quentin. Good at magic together. Good at friends. Bad at the rest of it.

“I’d like to… explore the parts we’re good at when you’re ready. I hope you know you can depend on me. We’ve shared a lot; all of us have been through so much together.”

This time she made sure to include Eliot. “So, books. I can leave them here for now. I need to get back; duty calls.”

“Thank you, Alice.” Eliot sounded sincere anyway, warm even. “Thank you for coming, for bringing the books, for…entrusting me with Q.” His expression was guarded, but the little smile playing at his lips suggested he was touched. He squeezed Quentin encouragingly, prompting Quentin to say something too.

“It’s not like I have much of a choice.” Alice lifted her chin, a little defiant, but with a small smirk. “But I think it’s for the best anyway. The Library needs me, and I still have a lot…to process…about everything.”

“Yeah.” Quentin looked down even though she couldn’t really see him. The guilt again, but it did sound like she had plenty else to occupy her time. He couldn’t overlook that part of why he was here probably had to do with Fillory itself. “Thank you for the books. And coming. And I’m sorry. For everything. I know it wasn’t fair. You’re right, we went in as a team, and I made a big call on my own. It just… It felt like fate. Like it was right. It wasn’t my plan before we went in.”

Alice held up her hand and nodded. “I get it. I don’t— I just need some time.”

“Right.” Quentin squeezed Eliot briefly. “Sorry.”

She smiled at her feet. “I’m sorry, too. But we can stop that now. I’ll try to help you figure out why you’re here when I can.”

Eliot held Quentin securely, shoring him up in the face of Alice’s disappointment and hurt. He nodded to Alice. “Just…be careful. We’re three hundred years in Fillory’s future here, and things are kind of a mess. We should all tread lightly.” Then El shrugged. “Or not. I’m terrible at time travel shit. You no doubt know more than I do.”

At Alice’s look of faint amusement, Eliot smiled. “Au revoir, Alice.”

She gave a nod and an apparent Traveler—not Penny—stepped from the shadows, and she lined up with him. He wasn’t the snotty guy Quentin remembered, but a younger man. Their age. He put his arm around Alice in a way that wasn’t strictly necessary for traveling, and they vanished.

Quentin just stared at the empty place where they’d be. “Do you think that they’re…”

“Fucking?” Eliot supplied, giving Quentin a searching look. “Does it matter?”

Eliot slid his hand down Quentin’s ass and squeezed between his cheeks, his fingers curling into Quentin’s cleft and pressing against his sensitive, just-fucked entrance meaningfully.

“Just that it seems kind of fast, doesn’t it?” Quentin closed his eyes. “And… She’s probably his boss…and…” He whimpered at being teased and then let out a long sigh. “No, it doesn’t matter. We should see what books she brought.”

 

~*~

 

So Alice had visited them. That was a thing that happened. Eliot didn’t entirely know how to feel about it except strangely possessive of Q.

It had to mean something, didn’t it, that Q had clung to him the whole time she stood there? He didn’t jump away guiltily and try to hide what Alice must already know if she’d perused Q’s book.

Now they had new books to sort through, and El glanced at them, flipping pages wearily as Q pored over a thick tome with interest. Of course, he wasn’t totally there, so El had to turn the pages for him, which necessitated a certain continued closeness. Eliot enjoyed that. He’d have enjoyed taking Q back to bed too, but he supposed that could wait.

The pain in his side suggested that was probably best.

Still, Eliot couldn’t help gazing at Q and wanting to be closer, to leave his mark anew, just in case Alice came back singing a different tune.

Q seemed to have confused feelings about that, but Eliot knew how it went. It wasn’t the first time Alice fucked a Traveler in retribution for Q sleeping with Eliot.

“So anything interesting in yours?” Eliot asked when it was clear Quentin was nearing the end of a page. “Because mine seems to be entirely arcane and addresses how to construct a body for a noncorporeal entity, but it’s… Not entirely applicable. Whatever you are, you are not a poltergeist or a demon. Besides, we’ve already done the living clay golem thing. We know how that works. If all we wanted was to build you a body, we probably could.”

“It’s about sex magic, which is arousing but doesn’t seem to really pertain to this situation. Some interesting ideas, though?” Quentin gestured to a diagram that looked not only unlikely, but probably lethal. They would definitely have to try that one. “None of these have anything about bonding to someone dead. Pretty much all of them end in horror if one of the participants of the bonding dies. Though there was one with a possibility of a zombie lover, but that’s kind of the opposite.”

Quentin hooked his leg over Eliot’s, locking them closer together. “Does warn with some of these that those with telekinetic powers may experience irregularities, though the side effects are more like dry mouth than resurrection.”

“Mm.” Eliot considered that. Could telekinesis have an effect on sex magic? Obviously Eliot’s telekinesis made him very good at certain types of spells, but he’d never considered that sex magic might fall under that banner. Of course, sex _was_ physical, and he and Q were physical kids, so maybe that had given them an edge.

But sex was psychic too. Spiritual even, if one believed in that, and El, as much as he’d be loath to admit it aloud, really did. At least with Q. Didn’t this just prove it? Quentin had always been his brother of the heart, and then some.

Sighing, Eliot leaned over to rest his head on Q’s shoulder and slipped his arm around Q’s waist. “Do you think my telekinesis is— Maybe…”

Eliot snuggled closer and nosed into Q’s throat to whisper there. “Just spitballing, but what if I telekinetically willed molecules into coalescing around your spirit, which was linked to me from our life in this place, and your… I don’t know. Maybe your mending is keeping them integrated?”

“I still like the magic dick theory, but possibly that. Maybe some after-effects of sex magic we did here… Maybe remnants, along with Fillory’s will. There’s gotta be something to do with the wards if you can’t see me outside of them. Theoretically I didn’t… I mean, I still have my arm. It could be shielding me from something.” Quentin toyed with Eliot’s curls. “What if I really can’t leave here? It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to stay here another fifty years with me.”

“I did it once, and I’d do it again,” Eliot answered vehemently, lifting his head to look into Q’s eyes. “If this is where you are, this is where I’ll be. I don’t—We’ll figure out something. I have to help Bambi too, but I’m not going to— Q.”

Eliot subsided into a sigh, pleading with his gaze. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I didn’t bring you back with my amazing tantric dick magic just to lose you again a couple days later. I don’t want a goodbye fuck. I want a life with you.”

“Good.” The word was flat but Quentin’s cheeks pinkened and he looked pleased. “I just… wonder… I guess, if tantric dick magic works outside of the wards.”

Quentin pointed to the book. “If you go back a few pages, there was a _Lover, You Should’ve Come Over_ spell that can apparently summon your bonded lover to you as long as both agree. Sort of a teleportation spell. So if you, you know, you’d have to go out there, and set up this circle and you’d need hair, spit, blood and cum, maybe we could see if it would put me outside the wards without me just vanishing?”

Eliot’s stomach knotted a little with anxiety, but he projected calm for Quentin’s sake. “That could be worth trying. It would certainly make life easier if we could leave the cottage’s immediate environs to assist Margo with this whole overthrowing the Dark King business. She’s not going to be very happy with me if I just stay here and play house with you.”

Flipping the pages back to the spell Quentin mentioned, Eliot studied the circumstances. It looked complex, but no more so than anything else he’d ever done with Q. “It looks like these lines account for your corporeal state. I’m not the _greatest_ at Sumerian, but I think I could effectively modify this portion to compensate for your in-between fleshliness.”

Tapping the spot, Eliot looked to Quentin and smiled, just a little. “It would be very convenient to be able to summon you to me at will. Or, well, at the will of my dick. I guess I can only masturbate furiously so many times a day. But, I’ll have you know, I _have_ successfully masturbated under a number of strenuous and stressful conditions, so I’m pretty much ideal for this quest.”

“That is good to know.” Quentin’s eyes went wide briefly as he nodded. “She did seem to indicate that it would be helpful if I could do recon and she wanted us to test the wards, so I’m guessing she’ll be very happy that we uh… quested together.”

He looked shifty, like he was trying to stifle a giggle. “I’ve been trying to figure out why I can affect some things, like the sheets on the bed or clothes but have trouble with the door and book pages. I thought maybe things I’ve cum on I can still effect, but I’m pretty sure we’ve fucked against that door. And I’m not sure how happy Margo will be if I just run around tagging things with my spunk.”

Startled, Eliot laughed. “Yeah, let’s maybe not do that. Besides, you’ve never jizzed on these clothes, and you still affected them. These are my new mourning threads. Which, come to think of it, seem a little morbid now that I’m fucking my not-ghost ghost-boyfriend on the regular.” He thought for a moment and then suggested, “What if I’m telekinetically affecting those things without realizing, on your behalf, because we’re so attuned when we’re doing…that?” He smiled a little and reached out to brush the backs of his fingers across Q’s cheekbone. “Or maybe you just naturally reach for my magic in those moments and use it yourself through our bond. Try it consciously now. See if you can turn this page.”

“Could have to do with desire, too. I am getting the feeling that there isn’t going to be a book that will explain this.” Quentin focused on the paper, then he reached out and turned the page. It seemed pretty easy. “Do you feel it when I do that? Hey, are you double-dipping on orgasms?”

It was apparent that Quentin was trying to keep a serious face with that question, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. “No wonder you want to keep me around.”

Eliot shoved Q in mock outrage and laughed harder. “No! It’s just…natural. It feels the same as when I do minor magic myself. Just…nice. The power flow is nice.”

It slowly sank in that Q and Eliot were so inextricably entwined that Q could use his discipline, and Eliot didn’t know how to process that. It was…intimate. Alarmingly so.

But…romantic, too, wasn’t it?

“I’ve never…been this involved with anyone before,” Eliot said hesitantly, after a few moments. He searched Quentin’s face. “I’m glad it’s you. You know what I mean?”

Quentin gave his sweet little smile, eyes widened slightly as he searched Eliot’s face, probably looking for signs of panic. The he leaned in and gave him a short, tender kiss: Those little pecks he was prone to, as if after all they’d been through, he still needed to weather balloon interest.

“I like to think it wouldn’t have worked with anyone else. I know you’ve been a lot of things to a lot of people, but I’m the only one you’ve raised a son with. You know I’m good marriage material from the start.”

Eliot laughed. “Ah, but _I_ am terrible marriage material. Ask Fen.” He sobered and ran a hand over his hair. “God, poor Fen. I hope she’s out there somewhere still.”

Sighing, Eliot studied Quentin anew, hiding his shyness and uncertainty behind a little grin. “But you know, even if I become king again, I’m allowed to have a husband too. So… I mean, how could I possibly even consider anyone else?”

“I don’t think those rules apply since you brought democracy to Fillory. Certainly, this Dark King can’t be following it.” Quentin sighed as he stroked the back of Eliot’s neck. “With any luck, Fen and Josh got out, and right now she’s flirting with a Benihana chef waiting on a rabbit for an update.”

Then Quentin frowned slightly and averted his gaze. “I’m going to choose to believe that this was your choice since it’s your magic. I don’t really want to be another forced marriage. I guess that’s why I—”

The door swung open and Margo stepped through looking very, very pleased with herself. Her gaze fell on Eliot and Quentin on the bed. “Did you two even get up? Where did the books come from?”

Then she waved both hands as if she could wave it all away. “Never mind. Come outside. I have someone you _have_ to meet.”


	5. The Prince of the Mud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo found a turtle.

“Is he cute?” Eliot asked, reflexively trying to lighten the mood and focusing on Margo.

Funny how when he thought of Quentin as a life partner, as his true love, he was over his freak-outs, but at the talk of _marriage_ … He suppressed a shiver of heebie jeebie.

Why did Quentin always need to label everything?

Eliot stood and started toward the door, glancing back at Q partway there. He struggled to keep from looking like he was running from the whole traditional commitment talk, but he knew it had to look like that because it _was_ that.

Quentin frowned but hopped up to follow, squeezing past Eliot to stand behind Margo, probably so he wouldn’t have to manage the door. It was a little strange. Eliot was about to ask why, but it suddenly got a _lot_ strange when a giant turtle head zoomed at Eliot, hooked mouth open.

“Whoa! Prince of the Mud, we talked about this! No!” Margo cast a massive spell, blowing back the fifty-foot snapping turtle.

“You said there would be food,” the giant turtle—Prince of the Mud?—wheezed.

“You ate five goats on the way!” She turned toward Quentin and Eliot with her hands up as if exasperated. “And not all of them were the non-talking kind, either.”

Eliot had ducked and covered, instinctive, but he slowly stood as the turtle no longer seemed hell-bent on devouring him.

“I am _not_ a goat,” Eliot pointed out, looking between Margo and the Prince of the Mud. “In fact, we are all deposed Fillorian royalty, as I’m certain Margo has informed your highness the Prince of Mud.”

Sidling closer to Quentin, Eliot ran his hands over Q’s shoulders, making certain he was still solid and okay. Standing behind Q, he looked to Margo and said, “You don’t do anything by halves, do you, Bambi? Find a turtle, we say, and you bring us goddamn Turtlezilla.”

No wonder she’d been so proud of herself.

She nodded, smiling to herself with her hands up. “Right? You say bring back a big turtle, I brought a fuckin’ big turtle.”

“I said _old_ turtle.” Quentin seemed bit tense. He’d jumped toward Eliot when the Prince of the Mud had made his move, but apparently the Prince didn’t see him. Or couldn’t grab hold. “Old. Has to—”

“It’s been a thousand years,” the Prince interrupted. “I was a hatchling when this world was born. Ember and Umber—”

“And how did he get through the wards? He could’ve _eaten_ Eliot!” Quentin was trembling, with rage or fear, it was hard to say.

“All right, so I didn’t think he could walk through them. Sorry I didn’t think to ward off house-sized talking reptiles. I thought you were the Fillory dork who knew these kinds of things.” Margo’s eyes flashed as she approached Quentin, but Eliot knew she was probably about as angry with herself as Quentin was.

“I—” Quentin turned to appeal to Eliot. “Did this turtle even vote?”

They all turned to look at the Prince of the Mud, who had sneaked back toward the cottage and was slowly stretching his head, mouth open near Eliot again. He stopped when everyone looked at him and slunk back.

“I consider myself apolitical.”

“Do you also consider yourself expendable?” Eliot glared and twisted his fingers through some preliminary battle magic, just in case. “Because if you keep trying to eat me, you’re going to end up _very_ dead. Ember and Umber aren’t going to save their little hatchling this time around. It’s every royal for himself.”

The Prince of the Mud huffed, then pulled his head into his shell. “I was told there would be snacks.”

Margo gave a little shrug. “He’s got us there. El _is_ a snack.”

Quentin started to pace. “A thousand years? Fillory is much older than that. Democracy was just three hundred years ago! How were you here at the dawn of Fillory?”

“I might be unclear on what a year is, exactly.” The Prince’s legs emerged from his shell, and he started to back away. “This seems like a bad time. I’ll go back to the Northern Marsh.”

“The hell you will!” Margo charged toward the Prince. “Listen, you overgrown amphibian wannabe. You came with me from that stinking marsh to help me persuade the talking animals to my side, and that is what you’re going to do!”

Eliot fired off the spell he’d prepped, aiming it for the area of the clearing just behind the Prince. The magic missile detonated a crater in the grass, sending up a chunky spray of gravel and soil that rained down on the Prince’s shell with a sound like hail on a roof. “Stop!”

Between Eliot ready to fire another spell at the Prince’s flank and Margo charging him, he had nowhere to go. When the Prince’s massive head swung toward Margo, maw gaping, Eliot plucked an ancient tree from the forest telekinetically and hurled it toward the giant turtle’s mouth like an oversized toothpick. As the turtle tried to bite it in half, Eliot wedged it at the back of his beak, away from the lethal tip, blocking it from closing and preventing him from gathering leverage to snap it.

“Gag on that, dickweed.” Eliot glanced toward Margo, his adrenaline pumping and his senses overloading. He’d never imagined he’d be so grateful Q wasn’t corporeal.

“Well that wasn’t very diplomatic.” Margo pressed her lips together briefly and then launched herself at Eliot, giving him a quick squeeze. “I missed you in Fillory.”

Eliot hugged her back. “I prefer pillow talk diplomacy, and this prince isn’t my type.”

Quentin stared at the odd spectacle of a giant snapping turtle chewing on a tree and then back at Eliot and Margo, appearing at a total loss. He rubbed his forehead, scattering his hair messily. He didn’t look jealous, exactly. More like he was trying to come to grips with what was happening.

“So is the Northern Marsh its own kingdom, or is that an honorary title?”

Trust Q to focus on minutiae. The Prince could obviously hear Quentin, even if he couldn’t _see_ Quentin, and he chomped at the tree in frustration until El pulled it free. He held it at the ready above the Prince’s head, ready to club him with it if necessary.

His side ached, though, and he knew he’d be regretting this later. He should’ve brought his cane out with him.

“It’s under Fillorian rule,” Eliot said, feeling a bit peevish. “He’s not prince of the Northern Marsh. He’s prince of the _mud_.” He used to be _high king_ of the Northern Marsh. Not that he’d ever given a fig’s spit about it, but he’d considered it under his authority. “I guess now the prince is laboring under the tender mercies of the Dark King.” He looked from Q to the Prince. “How’s that working out for you?”

“I’m hungry, that’s how it’s going. Used to be fish aplenty, salamanders, the occasional Fillorian or invading enemies.” The Prince turned his head, looking with one eye at Eliot and then Margo. “I do remember you. Some lean times then too as I recall. But voting. Yes. That was a good thing. What happened to the loser? Who got to eat him?”

“No eating people,” Quentin snapped. He seemed to sense Eliot’s need for support. Perhaps he could feel the pain in his side? He moved to help prop him up, displacing Margo, who looked slightly annoyed until she caught Eliot’s fond look at Quentin. “Especially not this one.”

“I hear him. I do not see him.” The Prince of the Mud turned his head the other way, but stayed in place, gaze darting up to the threatening tree as if weighing his options.

Eliot made the tree sway just a little, demonstrating his control over it. “The invisible one is a magical entity I summoned from the Underworld to service me sexually,” he drawled, winking at Q. “He’s very protective, and if you try to eat me again, I can’t promise he won’t attack.”

Margo started to cackle but covered her mouth before the Prince could catch on to how funny she found that prospect.

“I’m pretty fierce.” Quentin said, shifting his weight slightly. They all knew he could barely turn a page without accessing Eliot’s magic. In fact, this whole display was a drain on Eliot’s magic, and he suddenly worried what effect it would have on Quentin.

As Eliot thought it, he side-eyed Quentin, who didn’t seem quite as in focus as he had been.

Margo caught Eliot’s gaze, and she pursed her lips. They’d known each other so long and so well, just an arched eyebrow said so much. He knew that she saw what he saw.

With a loud sigh, Margo kicked off one of her shoes, moving it in the direction of the giant turtle.

“Don’t judge me.”

She brought up her hands, seeming to focus on the shoe. “Learned this as a prank I was going to use on you, El, but we made up before…”

The shoe transformed into a rubberized sandal with holes in it.

Quentin tilted his head. “Is that a Croc?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what a Croc is, Q.” Margo rolled her eyes, then changed her casting, pulling at the edges of the spell with her fingers as if enlarging a picture, which was the exact result with the Croc.

It grew, and grew, and grew, and _grew_ until it stood just a smidge smaller than the giant turtle.

“What?” Quentin looked seriously concerned about Margo, and Eliot couldn’t argue with that reasonable response.

“Bambi?”

“Shh. Just wait.” Satisfied with her work, she watched as the Prince of the Mud eyed the giant shoe.

“Well, hello there. How are you doing?” the Prince asked, apparently of the giant shoe.

The giant shoe said, “…,” mostly because it was a shoe and didn’t have the ability of speech. Not even in Fillory.

“You know,” said the Prince, “it does get pretty lonely in the mud.”

“I bet it does.” Margo folded her arms and looked smug. “Bet it’s been a while.”

“It hassss,” the Prince hissed as he turned, stalking around the shoe.

When Eliot tried to follow with the tree, Margo gestured for him to stop. She whispered, “Put it down.”

Eliot complied, at least half because he was worried about Q.

The giant turtle approached the giant shoe, lifted up on his hind legs, and began to grind. In apparent ecstasy, the Prince let out a loud, wheezing sound.

Quentin’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Is he…?”

“Fucking the shoe. Yeah. It’s a thing. I saw it on the internet.” Margo grinned wickedly.

“Is that going to be going on all the time?” Quentin pointed, then turned his back on the spectacle. He muttered, “I’m never going to get an erection again.”

Eliot slipped his arm around Quentin’s belly and dragged him closer, still watching the Prince go at the shoe. It was _fascinating_. He’d always liked to watch.

“Poor Q.” Eliot snuggled Quentin, not entirely altruistically, and tried to wrap his head around what he was looking at. “You know, when I was a kid and I discovered sex back on the farm, it was two horses going at it. This is giving me a similar feeling of confusing majesty.” He leered at Margo. “And it was Bambi’s shoe, so you know it’s into it.”

Margo sighed wistfully. “Man, I miss Hoberman.”

“ _Really_?” Quentin looked between them as if they’d lost their minds, which, well, Fillory had that effect.

“Listen, he’s not trying to eat Eliot right now, so let’s take that as a win.” Margo turned her attention on Eliot and Quentin. “And look, we learned something. Eliot’s gratuitous use of magic has an effect on you. Did you try out the wards?”

Quentin and Eliot filled her in on their short experiment and their visitation by Alice, edited for content so as not to further embarrass Q when he was already traumatized by the giant turtle dry-humping a Croc some yards distant.

“And neither of you fuckers asked about Hoberman?” Margo rolled her eyes.

Quentin looked up at Eliot sheepishly, obviously punting the question up the chain.

“Why are you looking at me?” Eliot sighed. Such was the responsibility of being the daddy in the relationship. “I’m sorry, Bambi. It didn’t occur to me. At the moment, I was entirely possessed with the need to prevent Alice from stealing Q away from me. Again. After I stole him from her, with your help, and his intoxicated but very enthusiastic consent. Look, it’s complicated. My relationship with Alice is very, _very_ complicated. Q’s no less so. So no, we didn’t ask about Hoberman. Mea culpa.”

“Where is he gonna go?” Margo held her hands up and appealed to the sky. “Assholes.”

“She’ll probably be back for her books, right?” Quentin looked between them, seeming not to understand that sometimes Margo just had to be angry. Most of the time, actually, but if he didn’t know that by now, he wasn’t going to. “Besides, we’re on our way to winning over the talking animals.”

They all looked up at the giant turtle. As if on cue, the Prince of the Mud gave a loud, extended wheeze and then flopped heavily on the Croc, drawing in its legs and head. After a few moments of their shocked silence, The Prince of the Mud started to snore.

Quentin stared with wide eyes as if he was horrified.

“Men.” Margo sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOT SAFE FOR ANYTHING (but pertinent) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xETtS-gIPzg


	6. In Which Q Is a Pure Bean but Not a Vanilla Bean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex magic works, y'all.

After the Prince of the Mud cockblocked Eliot, Fillory’s former High King decided it was time to get a move on with their plan. The sooner they secured the support of Fillory’s talking animals for Margo—and by extension, El and Q—against the Dark King—seriously what a loser—the sooner they could cut loose the Turtle Currently Known as Prince. Eliot didn’t mind him, aside from the Prince’s insatiable appetite for El’s admittedly delectable flesh, but his very presence seemed to wig Q right out now Quentin had seen his O face.

Honestly, sometimes it just figured.

Not that it _really_ figured. No one could’ve predicted that a giant turtle would follow Margo home at great speed from the fucking Northern Marsh and hump a shoe over the Mosaic, but it was what it was in Fillory, and El had quit asking questions. Sometimes you just had to let life come at you and flow around you.

Live in the turtle-fucking-a-Croc moment.

A lesson Quentin had yet to master. He was probably inside brooding and overthinking the whole turtle orgasm situation _right now_.

Not that Eliot would know, because he was outside in the morning light trying to convince the Prince to wake up from his postcoital nap. Margo had reclaimed her shoe—not that she’d worn it, but she had shrunk it back down to a more portable size—but the Prince hadn’t budged. He seemed exhausted by all the excitement.

Eliot _wished_ he could relate, but Q had spent the night ignoring Eliot’s pointed comments about how faded Q looked and how much he could probably use some help relaxing.

Now he shouted up at the Prince, “Hey! Your highness! Got an ETA for when we can get this show on the road?”

“Huh, what? Where’d she go?” The Prince’s head stuck out from his shell and he peered around, apparently looking for his well-loved Croc.

“She had better things to do than to wait for you to wake up.” Margo shrugged.

“So she just… left?” The Prince looked despondent as he scrambled to turn around. He was faster at that than he looked. Probably good that he’d slept through the night rather than getting ideas about raiding the cottage to eat Eliot.

“Pro tip: If you want a woman to linger, you have to see to her needs, too.” It was a good life lesson Margo was giving, but usually not applicable to footwear.

“Where is she?” The Prince bellowed, rearing up.

“Whoa, whoa, buddy. Why don’t we take a little walk?  You can show me where your old friends live, see if we can find her?” Margo held up her hands in what looked like it could’ve been a placating manner, but she was, as was Eliot, preparing to do battle magic.

Given Quentin’s current faded state, they’d agreed Margo should probably do the heavy lifting, which suited her just fine. She seemed to relish showboating, which was why there was a mammoth turtle in their yard.

“First, I think… something to eat.” The Prince whirled around to face Eliot, but Margo stepped between them.

“If you take even a _taste_ out of Eliot, I will make it my mission that you never find Lady Croc again.”

That was quite a promotion for a shoe, but Eliot wasn’t going to question it.

“But I’m hungry,” the Prince fairly well whined.

“We’ll pick up something on the way. Come on, be a good boy now.”

Eliot sidled closer to Margo and whispered at her, vaguely scandalized, “You’re sexually manipulating an ancient magical beast with eroticized footwear!”

“Not the first time I’ve made a man beg with a good pair of shoes.” She gave him a sly look, smirked, and poked him gently with her elbow.

“Oh, very well. If you really think we’ll find her.” The Prince turned his back to them, then pulled in his legs, flattening to the ground, at least as much as he could.

“I’m sure of it.” Margo turned to Eliot and kissed his cheek. “Do all the things I wish I could do while I’m gone. Gotta see a turtle about a Cozy Horse.”

She patted Eliot’s cheek, then turned. Casting a spell at the ground, she easily vaulted from her spot on the ground up onto the Prince of the Mud’s back, landing daintily before taking a seat. “Ride on! I think I see some deer through that grove.”

“Margo!” Eliot stared after her in subdued awe. “You’re _riding a Prince_!”

As she answered, Eliot said in tandem with her, “Not the first time for that either!”

He waved after her, weirdly exhilarated by her adventurous spirit, as if he was going on an adventure by proxy. Maybe he was.

Then he turned around to go inside, steeling himself for whatever mood Q might be in.

Quentin stood at the window, then looked at Eliot when he came in. “No one said there were giant turtle rides. And they’re going to see the Cozy Horse?”

His voice was so full of longing, reminding Eliot once again that despite everything else, Quentin really was still that silly dork in love with Fillory. It was impossibly endearing. Eliot’s heart beat faster, and he just stared for a few moments, trying to process how any one person could be such a precious bean.

“Yeah.” Eliot gave Quentin a lopsided smile. “Maybe we can get you a little more mobile before the Cozy Horse shows up. You want to ride him, right? So let’s find a way to get you beyond the wards.”

“It’s not all I want to ride now that that… _sound_ has finally faded.” Quentin again looked slightly traumatized, but then he shook it off as he crossed to Eliot and wrapped his arms around him, clinging slightly.

It was a risk to try moving him past the wards. There was every possibility he could vanish back to the Underworld.

And if he did, well, Eliot would just have to go get him again. With Alice running the Library, Eliot was pretty sure he could find a way down there. If he had to march into Hell for Q, well…

_Not the first time_.

Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin in return and kissed his hair, awkwardly positioning his body so his healing gut wound didn’t get jostled. Sighing, he nuzzled Q and then reached down to squeeze his ass a little. “I missed your booty. I’m still sad the giant reptile’s wheezing turned you off more than my flirting turned you on.”

“It wasn’t just that. It seemed rude to do anything in front of Margo considering that it’s not just that she misses Josh, but that she really _can’t_. I felt bad enough we didn’t even ask about Josh when we had the chance.” Quentin looked up at Eliot.

So sweet. So sincere. So underestimating that Margo could take care of herself and would probably enjoy watching.

“Oh, Q.” Eliot cradled Quentin’s face in one hand and squeezed his butt again with the other. “Margo is dealing with a lot of unresolvable sexual tension right now. Don’t you think it would’ve been kind of us to give her some live action porn? Have you _seen_ her internet search history? A Hoberman-less Margo would absolutely be Googling some hardcore man-on-man action so she could get some release. Only, you know, Fillory doesn’t get Internet. Even, apparently, three hundred years in the future.”

Eliot paused to consider that and frowned. “What a fucking ripoff.”

“Fillory never had Al Gore. Obviously.” Quentin took Eliot’s hand and then, seeming to draw on their magical connection, opened the door himself. “I’ll keep that in mind with Margo. I guess giving her a show is really the least we could do.”

“Quentin!” Eliot cooed, delighted. He followed after him, grabbing his cane on the way out the door, and closed it behind them. Then he fell into step with Quentin and grinned down at him. “I love putting on a good show…”

He danced a little, knocking his hip against Quentin’s, and dropped a quick kiss to his sandy hair. “My true love and my platonic life partner both admiring my stunning good looks and phenomenal tantric dick magic _simultaneously_. Is it my birthday?”

While it was mostly teasing, Eliot definitely enjoyed the sound of that.

“I thought you’d said you’d moved past birthdays in your twenties.” Quentin smirked. Perhaps this was another of the benefits of having lived a lifetime together already. “It’s nothing she hasn’t seen, even if she didn’t realize you were possessed of tantric dick magic at the time.”

It was starting to seem like Quentin was serious about it, which…while it was hardly the kinkiest thing they’d done, it usually took at least a little bit of seduction to get him to agree to new things like that. Maybe he was _just that excited_ about the prospect of the Cozy Horse.

Or a little stir crazy. He always did seem to enjoy an adventure. Anything that got him out of his head.

“So, I guess I stay in here, you go out there… and we need to um…” Quentin gestured and blushed faintly. “Guess we should practice putting on shows if we’ve got to make up for a whole Internet for Margo.”

“I like the cut of your jib, Coldwater,” Eliot replied approvingly. He rapped the ground with his cane twice to punctuate that and grinned. “Well, my sweet boy, it seems this is where I leave you. I’ll need a strand of your hair and a drop of your blood. Maybe a good, strong ass-grab and a big movie kiss to get me started on my way?”

His jollity masked his anxiety; it wouldn’t do for Quentin to realize Eliot was nervous too. Quentin’s own misgivings at any given time were more than enough for him to cope with. Besides, looking at Quentin, Eliot knew that Q knew. He could read Eliot so well. That lifetime spent together might’ve been more a remembered dream than reality now, but its roots went deep and its consequences spanned the whole of their daily lives.

“Not too dramatic, all we need is to injure you again. Though… I have to admit, that Malfoy cane is kind of doing it for me.” Quentin swept in and cradled Eliot’s face, kissing him in that needy way that reminded Eliot how fragile Quentin could be. How he craved approval and love.

It reminded Eliot of their truncated conversation about marriage and left Eliot wondering if Margo and the turtle had been an excuse to sulk.

Not that it was a good topic for now.

But Eliot was also painfully aware of how easily he could snuff Quentin’s reaching out. Eliot was braver, sure. But he wasn’t sure he was _that_ brave yet.

Then Eliot quit thinking and returned Quentin’s kiss with his whole heart, trying to communicate with lips and tongue and teeth and breath what he couldn’t put into words, what he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He couldn’t help thinking that Quentin had saved the universe and deserved so much better than Eliot, whose dark history of selfishness, fear, and betrayals hardly qualified him to marry a hero, but he resolved to do better, to be better. This was a second chance he’d only prayed he’d have.

He kissed Quentin wildly, passionately, with artless need, and pressed forward against Q’s smaller body as if he could somehow absorb him and carry him along by force.

Quentin pulled at Eliot’s clothing, pawing with need. It really was amazing how quickly Quentin could escalate, not with flirting so much as responding to Eliot’s emotions. That could’ve been the reciprocal magic they were sharing.

Or maybe Eliot was just better at expressing himself this way.

Quentin untucked Eliot’s shirt and slid his hands under, dragging his short nails down Eliot’s back. This was quickly going from a Hollywood kiss to more of a San Fernando Valley kiss, but Eliot wasn’t going to argue about it. He leaned on his cane to keep his balance and tongue-fucked Quentin’s mouth with a will, rocketing past sweet-and-loving into obsessive-and-depraved territory almost at once. Even in their fifty years together, Eliot had been holding back, never quite willing to subject Quentin to the enormity of Eliot’s feelings, the depth of his desire.

He’d ached for Quentin from the moment he saw him, and he’d been trying futilely to play it off ever since. These past few days… This honesty… It was new. It was still a raw, ragged edge in Eliot’s mind, an imperfect, throbbing seam between Quentin-alive and Quentin-now.

They kissed until Eliot couldn’t get enough air, until the tiny sips of breath through nose and parted lips just wasn’t enough, and then he pulled away with an apologetic gasp. Gazing at Quentin through half-closed eyes, he let out a shaky exhalation and offered a languid, debauched smile. “Now _that_ was a kiss.”

Quentin looked about ready to dive in for more, his eyes darkened with lust, his lips red and shiny, breath ragged. He looked a little dazed, but also he had brightened up, manifesting in fuller color, so it wasn’t exclusively dick magic.

Not that Quentin had to know that, exactly.

It also boded well for their experiment. Better for him to be at full health before trying something potentially dangerous.

Quentin grabbed Eliot’s shirt to pull him close, kissed him again, then released him. “All right. So hair, right? And blood. I guess I have blood.”

Eliot grinned. “You definitely have blood. I’ve tasted it when we kiss a little rough. You know I’m into the freaky shit, though, so bring it on, Coldwater.”

He pulled on Q’s shirt in turn, tugging the hem to neaten it, and cleared his throat. “You’re very corporeal, where I’m concerned. Which is good, because I want to carpe your corpus, like, criminally.”

Then he reached into his vest pocket for a small crystal vial. “I guess we should do this before I lose my nerve.”

Licking his lips, Eliot reached out to take Quentin’s hand and performed a basic bloodletting, gathering a few drops of Q’s blood from his fingertip into the vial. Then he kissed it better and looked into Q’s eyes before kissing Q’s mouth again. How was he going to leave him behind?

It had seemed doable—necessary—before, but the more Eliot thought about it, the more fear took hold.

“Hair,” he whispered, trying to stay the course. He combed his fingers up into Quentin’s hair and ran his hand through the locks until he came away with a loose strand. He stowed it in the vial, sealed it, and put it back in his vest pocket. Then he exhaled heavily. “Right. So. I go, I do the spell, and you come to me. Like…magic.”

“I came to you from the Underworld. Surely, I can make it through a ward, right?” Quentin looked less certain that he sounded, but also eager. Was it his lust for adventure? Or maybe he was worried about Eliot leaving him behind.

Probably all the above. Plus a Cozy Horse.

Eliot wasn’t even going far, and yet it almost felt like they were preparing for goodbye.

Quentin bit his lip. “It’s possible I’ll just get to watch you masturbate from over here, and I can’t complain about that.”

Eliot laughed and shook his head. “You know, I don’t think anyone else has ever loved watching me jerk it like you do, Q. Some straight boy you turned out to be.”

Quentin chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Let’s not overthink it and label what I am.”

Eliot leaned on his cane and stroked Q’s cheek. “I love you, Q. For a long time, I didn’t… I didn’t really say it, but I don’t want to walk away from you even for five minutes without saying it now. If anything—You need to know that. Tell me you know.”

Turning his head, Quentin kissed Eliot’s palm. “I know. I do know. It’s… You know, it’s hard sometimes for me to see it because it’s hard for me to think of myself as…loveable, I guess. But I love you too, El. I think I had in my head what love was supposed to be like, this up and down thing, this constant… And with you it was so…simple in some ways. Sometimes I don’t always know how to trust it. I’m sorry for that. I’m working on it. This is why we need more time. Why we _will_ have it, right?”

He looked up at Eliot and traced his features with such adoration that it almost hurt. “We deserve this second chance.”

“We do, beyond question or doubt.” Eliot shivered under the intensity of Q’s look, the unmistakable devotion there. “Guess maybe I can relate to the idea of…not feeling loveable. We’ll work it out.” He paused, studying Q, and added in his Daddy voice, “We _will_ work it out.”

Then he stepped away, bowed, and gestured flamboyantly with his cane. “If you will excuse me, Quentin, I have a chicken to choke.”

“Then we need to talk about what other uses we can come up with for that cane.” Quentin moved to stand in the center of the mosaic. Without any specific instruction of where he needed to be, that did seem like the likeliest spot for magic to be centered.

He did seem to have a quite boyish excitement building as he sat down, bringing up his knees and crossing them at the ankles. He hugged his legs and rested his chin on his knees, an eager gleam in his eyes. “No pressure, but this could be the last thing I ever see, so no phoning it in.”

“Oh, no pressure,” Eliot mocked, flipping Q off and then starting across the clearing. He made it to the edge of the woods before he looked back, heart in his throat, to see if Quentin had vanished silently back to the Underworld.

When their gazes met, Quentin waved sarcastically, and El hid his relief by doing a little soft-shoe dance step before ceremoniously drawing the circle into the earth with his cane. Since Q had withheld his affections the night before, Eliot had plenty of time to memorize the spell and make the necessary modifications. As he performed the incantation, he added the necessary elements of Q’s hair and blood to the soil and then stripped naked with a certain teasy flourish. Even at a distance, he could feel Q’s stare on his skin. Leaning on the cane for stability, Eliot slid down to his knees and settled in beside the spell circle. He spat in the appropriate spot and then spat on his hand to get to work with the cum.

It was easier with Q watching. Easier when Q wanted this to happen. Eliot was already half-hard before he wrapped his saliva-slick fingers around his shaft and got to work.

He positioned himself with his front facing Quentin so Q could better watch him stroke his cock one-handed while he combed his other hand through his hair and writhed a little, getting into the mood. He imagined Quentin touching him, imagined Quentin’s lips on his throat, Quentin’s teeth scraping carefully over his collarbones. Q was always so sweet, so soft, like Eliot was precious. He’d never figured out if that was because Q was used to women or just because Q was like that, but he treasured it, how special it made him feel that Quentin wanted to care for him that way.

Basking in the sunshine on his skin, on Q’s equally hot gaze on his body, Eliot squeezed his cock harder, working it roughly, making it thicken and harden in his long-fingered hand. He caressed down his chest as he worked, pinching each nipple into stiffness, plucking at them until they were red and puffy and sore. Trailing his blunt nails over his skin, he scraped red lines into the pallor, hissing at the rush of sensation, and then reached down to tug his sac and roll his balls between his fingers.

Tipping down his head, he spat again, wetting his cock anew, and thought of the first time Quentin had sucked his cock, that ill-fated threesome with Margo when everything between them had just…imploded in the most glorious way. It seemed so distant now, and it had always been hazy, but he distinctly remembered Margo’s hand stroking his cock until Quentin batted it away and leaned in to replace it with his mouth. Eliot and Margo had exchanged a look over Quentin’s head—a kind of shorthand “well okay then”—and then Eliot had known with painful certainty it was going to take more than one night to get Coldwater out of his system. He’d hoped—the whole _point_ of it had been Margo wanting him to stop pining—but it just convinced him even more that Q was special.

Mopey, kind of awkward, but so very special.

And now he was Eliot’s. Not just because he had no options, not just because he needed to solve a puzzle and raise a kid. He was Eliot’s because he _chose_ Eliot. Because of all the people who loved Quentin, it was Eliot whose love he wanted most.

That certainty hit him like a punch in the gut, making precum drip from his slit, and Eliot bit his lip as he groaned, so lost in it that he almost forgot Q was watching and he was supposed to be putting on a show for him.

Then he recalled, and it sent a fresh rush of lust surging through him. Laughing to himself, Eliot picked up his cane and brandished it for Quentin’s benefit before abandoning his jerking off briefly to work a little spell on the walking stick. Q _had_ wanted to know about the cane’s other uses. As a long-handled dildo, it would serve just fine. That it was also pretty comparable to Eliot’s favorite cock—Quentin’s—was a nice plus.

The spell called for spit, so Eliot spat on the thick rounded end of his shorter, squatter cane and braced it behind him where he knelt, grasping it and angling it just so as he gripped his cock with his other hand. Then, thinking of how it had felt to take Q inside him again in his dream, he pushed back onto the slick wood and groaned. “ _Fuck_.”

Time to start working on the incantation again. With the way that blunt pressure crushed into his prostate every time he rocked his hips to thrust into his hand, Eliot wasn’t gonna have any problems supplying the semen required.

Eliot shut his eyes and fucked himself like Quentin would fuck him, letting Q’s melancholy little smiles, his rare laughter, his soulful eyes fill his mind as he chanted in Sumerian. Down deep came a tug behind his navel, the bond between them tightening and solidifying. This spell crystallized it like Eliot had never felt or expected. His eyes flew open, and he stared across the clearing at Q to find him glowing like starlight where he sat at the Mosaic’s center.

Whatever it was between them, Eliot was feeding it. His energy, his _love_ was powering Q, nourishing him. Q needed him, and Eliot was not gonna let him down.

Gods, he was so beautiful. _Look at that man. He’s good and true and no one will ever love you like he does._

Something warm and pure washed over Eliot, something so much more profound than an outdoor wank, and he choked out the last few lines of Sumerian before coming convulsively all over the sigil.

When he looked up, Quentin wasn’t there. Not in his square, not walking toward him.

He’d vanished. Nowhere to be seen.

Eliot’s afterglow turned into anxiety. He wasn’t going to panic. Not yet. Not now.

Maybe Q went inside.

Or maybe he walked through the wards and Eliot couldn’t see him.

But then molecules coalesced into a fog, coming in like smoke.

The fog became denser. Impossible to see through. It concentrated slowly, forming the rough human shape of Quentin. Then his hair, his face, his shoulders, down to his legs.

Quentin stood on the sigil, summoned to the exact spot. He glowed, and then that slowly burned off, just leaving Q standing before Eliot where he knelt. “Am I here?”

Relief slammed into Eliot like a physical force, and he grabbed Quentin by the hips and started stripping him in a mad rush. He growled when Q’s clothes didn’t just come apart at his touch and tugged roughly at his jeans to get them down. Then, looking up at Q’s face, Eliot leaned in and sucked Q through his underwear, totally lost in the pleasure of Q’s presence beyond the wards, in the palpable strength of the bond, renewed now Q was so close.

Undulating over the wooden phallus, Eliot groaned and dragged Quentin’s underwear down his thighs before nuzzling into his crotch, breathing in the scent of him, so real, so physical. The coarse curls of his groin, the soft skin of his cock, every detail just as Eliot remembered. Quentin was here, and he was okay.

Sucking Quentin into his mouth, Eliot moaned again, unable to help himself, and held onto Q’s hipbones for dear life as he worked between Q and the dildo and back again. He’d already spent, but it still felt fucking amazing, and Eliot was still young enough to hope for a round two. Maybe.

“I’m here.” Quentin seemed almost as excited about that as he was to be touched like this by Eliot. He took a deep, soothing breath as if cutting off his panic and just gave into the sensation of Eliot’s mouth.

They’d done it. Past the wards. Eliot could see him and feel him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant for others. Could they see Quentin normally now, or was he still just for Eliot?

Not that it mattered right now, with Quentin’s dick in his mouth and the way Q fully enjoyed that. He always tried to gently hold Eliot’s head so he could fuck his face, which sounded dirty but saved a lot of neck strain.

It left Eliot to simply think about the suction, to swirl his tongue and to gaze up at Quentin to gauge his reactions.

Quentin seemed unable to take his eyes off Eliot. It was as If his most fond wish had been granted and he wanted nothing else from life but to see his cock slide between Eliot’s lips.

They’d been at it a while—Q was getting close, if his sounds and the buckling of his knees was anything to go by—when the sky darkened. More intense than a cloud passing in front of the sunshine, though not full night. All around them rose a cool mist carrying a sickly-sweet smell of death and ancient crypts.

Peering past Quentin’s enthralled face, Eliot saw official-looking people in black mourning suits starting to form from the strange fog.

_Shit_. It had to be the Underworld turning up to reclaim Q now he’d stepped beyond the wards.

But the Underworld dealt in shades, not whatever Q was becoming. He was more solid than ever, full of life as he fucked Eliot’s yielding, greedy mouth.

A plan came to Eliot, desperate and slightly unhinged but promising. He really did do his best work with an audience.

He just wasn’t usually sucking cock, his own spent dick quiescent between his legs while he undulated over a walking-stick-turned-dildo.

Eliot extended his hands behind Quentin’s back to grip his ass, and he flipped off the Death Squad. Those Underworld pricks could suck El’s toes.

Then, smiling around Quentin’s cock, Eliot gripped his cheeks and rubbed his fingertips against Q’s entrance, working a couple fingers inside as he sucked him. Q always liked being overwhelmed with sensation, having every moody thought driven from his head. He loved when Eliot overtook his senses completely. This wasn’t quite that—Eliot was winging it here—but when he choked Q into his throat and massaged his sweet spot, Quentin cried out like he’d been punched and doubled over, clinging to Eliot’s hair, his shoulder, trying to keep his balance while he shot into Eliot’s mouth.

That moment carried power—need, lust, longing, fear—and Eliot wrung the magic from the passion, pouring it blindly into that bond he’d sensed between them minutes ago, the palpable thing connecting them to one another—and Quentin to life.

When Quentin finally relaxed and subsided, Eliot eased away enough to look around. The Death Squad was gone, vanished as if they’d never been there except for the odd quiet of the forest. The sun beat down on them anew, warming Eliot down to the center of his being. He gazed up at Q, hoping he could feel it too, that the surfeit of sex magic simmering in Eliot’s veins sustained Q too.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Eliot shrugged up at Quentin. “So, Mr. Coldwater, how does it feel to be a free man?”

“Um…” Quentin was still panting a little. At the moment, he completely embodied the word _afterglow_. “Like I want to conquer the world, but also like I kind of need a nap.”

He smiled down at Eliot, then pulled him into a slightly sloppy, enthusiastic kiss. Pausing, he pressed his forehead to Eliot’s. “Should we try for Whitespire while we’re out here?”

“About that...” Eliot sighed and gingerly lifted off the dildo he had yet to remove. There hadn’t been a cool moment to do it, and now it was awkward, and Eliot hated being awkward—that was Q’s job. Eliot restored the walking stick to its usual dimensions, leaned on it, and rose slowly to his feet, though his trousers remained around his ankles. “Q, we may have a little problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whatever reason, chapters with sex are longer.


	7. That Looks Like a Big Problem to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get emo but no one dies.

“I don’t think it’s really a problem. You did just cum.” Quentin’s gaze was on Eliot’s half-stiff cock, which was… Well, not the problem, and hadn’t been with Q, and was frankly a little offensive.

“Rude!” Eliot huffed. “No, Q. The problem is that, um… When you exited Margo’s wards, the Underworld noticed you were here. While I was sucking your cock, this Underworld Death Squad of, like, grim reapers all in black suits manifested. I think they wanted to take you back. So I may have flipped them off and made you cum really fast so I could use the sexual energy to anchor you here and dismiss them.”

Quentin’s eyes widened, then he looked over his shoulder as if they would still be there.

“The Underworld sent out not one but _many_ reapers, and you call that _a little_ problem?” Quentin quickly did his pants back up, hands shaking slightly. “ _Shit_. Was Penny one of them? We were getting along so well.”

“Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to Eliot to see if one was Penny. “I don’t know. I was sort of preoccupied.” Grinning despite the situation, Eliot licked his lips and eyed Quentin. “You’re very distracting. I’ve never met anyone so damn cute when he’s having his cock sucked.”

Quentin blushed and cleared his throat. He knelt and pulled up Eliot’s trousers, fastening them securely as he apparently tried to get over the compliment. Or, possibly, the shyness of his late realization a group of people watched him get his cock sucked.

“I should be able to go back through the wards, right? Not sure how long the, uh, magic dick effect will keep reapers at bay. So I guess I’m not quite a free man yet.”

Eliot shrugged. “If they come back, we fuck again. I could suck your cock all. Damn. Day.” He raised his brows suggestively and tugged at Q’s belt loops, dragging him close. “Tell me you wouldn’t enjoy blowing off the Death Squad by getting blown by yours truly. Repeatedly. Just cumming and cumming until you’re sore. It’s been a while since we did that.”

Quentin melted into Eliot’s embrace, the memory evidently as appealing to him as it was to Eliot.

“Though that was, you know, for fun. Not under pressure of possibly dying again.” Quentin stroked Eliot’s back. “We can head back, make sure I can still get into the wards, then maybe wait and see how long it takes before they start to show up? Plan accordingly?”

“Mm my boyfriend is _so_ clever.” Eliot grinned and swooned closer to steal a kiss. “I was ready to run off half-cocked.” Waggling his brows, Eliot smirked and then tugged Q toward the wards again. “But you know I’m always up for some experimentation.”

“Think this is the second time you’ve called me boyfriend. I’m going to start to think you like me, Mr. Waugh.”

They walked back to the cottage and the wards that Eliot didn’t really see but could sense. Quentin seemed acutely aware of the boundary and paused. “You go through first, I think. It’s probably easier for me to follow your energy than to pierce it myself. And I think hold my hand so we’re connected.”

So it seemed that Q had some theories going of his own, which was great. Understanding the parameters seemed to ease Quentin’s anxiety, which soothed Eliot in turn.

“Okay.” Eliot extended his hand to take Quentin’s and laced their fingers. Smiling a little, he addressed where he assumed Margo’s wards were, his voice and manner as imperious as in his greatest High King days. “Wards, you were created by Margo Hanson to protect me. This is my _boyfriend_ ” —suck on that label, Q— “Quentin Coldwater. Whitelist him already.”

Then Eliot marched forward, projecting authority and feeding love and magic into their connection, tugging Q along by the hand.

Quentin came through easily, no flickering or vanishing. It just let him pass as if he were an actual extension of Eliot. Which, at this point, he did seem to be.

“I think that rite bound us a little tighter, but I also think I’m starting to understand this better.” Quentin looked relieved and more relaxed. He rested his head on Eliot’s chest again, snuggling in. “I’m so glad that after fifty years and a resurrection, I’ve finally reached boyfriend status.”

Eliot laughed, but it was a little wary. He snuggled Q though, content to have him close, and tucked his chin over Quentin’s head. “You were always more than just a boyfriend, Q. You’re…”

He struggled for words, running his hands up and down Quentin’s back and trying to process his feelings. “Do you even realize the magnitude of crush I had on you?”

“Did you realize the magnitude of the crush I had on _you_?” Quentin looked up into Eliot’s eyes meaningfully.

That hit Eliot hard, and he licked his lips reflexively as he stared at Quentin. “But you and Alice…”

“Yeah. And me and Arielle. And you and Arielle. I had… I _have_ a lot of feelings. I didn’t know what to do with them, and I didn’t know… You know, maybe if I’d known myself better, if I’d understood more, things with Alice wouldn’t have been such a fucking mess, you know? She probably could’ve handled it if I’d been honest, but I couldn’t even be honest to her because I wasn’t honest to myself.” Quentin rubbed his forehead as if it was hard for him to talk about this, and probably it was. “I thought I had to love just one person, but you showed me that it wasn’t… That it was okay if I had those feelings.”

“Oh Q.” Eliot grasped Q by the jaw and tipped his face for a slow, searching kiss. Closing his eyes, Eliot basked in the moment, glorying in the familiarity of Quentin’s mouth and the unfamiliarity of the idea Quentin had crushed on him.

It was one thing to know Quentin had let himself be seduced by Margo and Eliot when he was vulnerable. It was another to know Quentin had kissed him first that night, their anniversary at the Mosaic. This, though… The idea that Quentin had actively desired him, had thought about him, fantasized…

Head spinning, Eliot came up for air and gently butted his head against Q’s. “Hearts are complicated, baby boy. There’s room for so much more than outdated Hollywood romantic standards suggest. I wish… that when you’d asked me to give this another try, I’d been brave enough to remember that.” He smiled sadly and again brushed their lips together before whispering, “But you’re here now, and we’re going to get it right this time.”

“I thought you knew and didn’t want it.” The sad little expression on Quentin’s face was heartbreaking enough, transporting Eliot back to the sorrow of that moment.

How that casual rejection must’ve devastated Quentin, and yet he hadn’t really let on. And when Eliot was possessed, Quentin remained on the front lines, practically seducing the monster for the chance to get Eliot back.

The profundity of Quentin’s feelings was too much to wrangle with, and Q seemed to know it, too. He swallowed hard and backed up. “So I guess we should see how long it takes to attract the Underworld. You lead the way out and then… we wait?”

Frustrated by his own inadequacy, Eliot nodded and bit his lip. “Yeah. Um.”

Eliot took Q’s hand and stepped outside the wards, drawing Q with him. Wishing he had better words, he settled for an earnest, subdued, “You’re amazing, Quentin Coldwater.”

“I’ll never forget my first look at Brakebills, you perched and waiting for me, smoking, and I was confused by so much. It was overwhelming. And I thought at first, for a long time, I guess, that my feeling…my attraction… I thought it was because you were my first contact with magic.” Q squeezed Eliot’s hand, still solid, and then gently let go. He remained and breathed a sigh of relief. “Knowing what I know now, about the timelines, about the interference to even get me to talk to Alice… I don’t know. I can’t say the feelings weren’t real. They were. They always will be in some way. It’s just…. In retrospect, Alice and I were set up more to be a magical team. I thought it all meant something other than it did.”

“Yeah,” Eliot acknowledged softly, arms aching to wrap around Quentin again, to hold him close and somehow erase all the hurt he’d caused. But Q seemed to need his space, and Eliot didn’t want to be—god, no—needy and clingy. It was antithetical to everything he was, but sometimes with Quentin—more than just sometimes—Eliot wanted to latch on and never let go.

Furrowing his brow, he surveyed the clearing, the wood’s edge, listening to birdsong. “When they come, the forest goes silent. There’s…mist, and it’s like a cloud passing in front of the sun. When that happens, clock it, and we’ll get you back inside.”

Talking about business made him feel a little more himself, a little more firm in his footing, but when he looked at Quentin’s sweet, melancholy face again, his heart twinged, and he found himself sidling closer, reaching out, sliding his finger through Quentin’s belt loop just to hang on. “I thought I loved Mike. You saw how that turned out.”

What a cheerful subject.

“I just mean… We’ve both been manipulated by…” He exhaled heavily. “By so much, by magical forces and entities and…” Shaking his head, Eliot frowned. “This is real, though. It was real enough to solve the Mosaic, real enough to bring you back and keep you here. This is beyond proof of concept, Q, this right here, you and me standing in Fillory on yet another adventure long after we both died.”

Eliot looked down at Q and longed to kiss him. The insides of his elbows felt hollow with the need to reach out and trap Q in a tight embrace. Instead, he let his expression relax from its usual careful look of amused indifference, let all his insecurities and yearning show.

“You were so happy with him.” Quentin shook his head, looking like he wanted to comfort Eliot. “I had thought maybe things had worked out finally as they were supposed to. That we both had… and then…”

Quentin stroked the back of Eliot’s hand with his finger, just a quick whisper of a touch. “Anyway, this kind of talk may skew the results. We should, um, I don’t know. I’m not good at small talk.”

“It was all a lie, Q. It was… What we had wasn’t real. Mike was blacked out when we met. It was all—” Eliot couldn’t just let it drop; that wound still went too deep. “And even as happy as I thought I was… It only happened because you were at Brakebills South. If you’d been in New York, you would’ve been with me and Margo in the library that day, and I’d have been so busy trying to make you smile I wouldn’t even have noticed him.”

It embarrassed him to admit, but he bulled on. “And then you came back with Alice, and it was so obvious that… I felt so awkward about it. Awkward that I’d tried to move on. Awkward and jealous that you had too. But I didn’t think you’d ever been interested in me. I thought it was all just…this dumb one-sided pining I felt toward a first year who was never going to reciprocate. I acted like a fool. And then things went…so painfully awry with Mike, and I was just…broken. Not only did I lose my boyfriend—or who I’d thought was my boyfriend, at my own hand no less—but I lost what we’d had. You were with Alice all the time after that, and nothing was ever the same again.”

Eliot’s voice trembled a little, and he frowned, trying to steel it. His finger curled tighter in Q’s belt loop, tugging. “I hated everything. I drank too much. I… I know about wanting to die, Q. I know about hating myself. God do I hate myself sometimes.” His breath caught, and he warbled inadvertently. “Rejecting you was the worst thing I ever did, and I’ve done some _really_ shitty things. Loving you, Q…”

Staring at Q so hard his eyes burned, Eliot whispered, “It’s the best thing about me.”

Quentin turned, gaze shifty, as if torn between duty and desire to comfort Eliot. He was never great at that kind of balance.

And once again, he failed at it.

Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot, pulling him close, breathing him in.

Eliot had spent so much time trying to tough it out, walk it off, set parameters, and manage expectations that he must sent Quentin the message he wasn’t needed. And Quentin, depressive that he was, was far too ready and willing to believe it, wasn’t he?

“Everything happened so fast.” Quentin hugged him tighter. “And I thought, I thought you were… bulletproof, I guess. I don’t know what I thought. I wasn’t thinking. Then Margo was back, and Penny, and…” Quentin sighed loudly. “Not that I could have even been any help.”

He probably could’ve done more than he would ever know, but though Eliot’s memories of that time were fuzzy due to doing way too many drugs, he _could_ recall Quentin and Alice’s bickering.

Eliot sighed too and let Quentin console him, smoothing over the rough places left by old wounds. “You had trouble of your own. You and Alice never did _quite_ get along. And,” Eliot added magnanimously, “it was your first real relationship. You were doing a lot of learning and adjusting. In your first year at magical post-grad. It’s understandable you were overwhelmed, and I wasn’t exactly opening up and reaching out. That’s not really a strength of mine.”

“Alice was so worried about my feelings toward Julia. I tried to convince her…but looking back now, I think she knew me better than I knew myself. Not that her parents were a great model for domestic bliss, but whose are?” Quentin smoothed his hands over Eliot’s back.

Fifty years together and they’d never talked about any of this. Eliot had been so committed to being in the moment and keeping Quentin from thinking too hard.

Now it felt like a relief, and he wondered why they hadn’t done this sooner.

“Mine certainly weren’t.” Eliot kissed Quentin’s hair and sighed. “Look, Q, I hate to say this, but my mantra has always been ‘do what feels good’ and I’ve just gone from there. That philosophy has led me to some morally ambiguous outcomes, but it has kept me—more or less—true to myself.”

He slid his foot between Quentin’s feet so their legs could hug too, just wanting more contact. He felt touch-starved despite all the contact these past few days, like he was making up somehow for decades upon decades of being not-quite-candid-enough. It was too much in some ways, and not enough in others, and Eliot, hiding a little from the sincerity, murmured, “What I know is… You are the one I want, the one I need, oh yes indeed. So I’m gonna shape up, because you apparently need a man, which I did not know about you for quite a while, but which I have always hoped.”

“And here I thought you clocked me immediately.” Quentin’s gaze glimmered as he grinned. “So are you going to don some spandex pants and dance around for me, because—”

“Please don’t,” a familiar, very tired-sounding voice said.

Quentin jumped and pulled Eliot through the wards with him. “Shit!”

Eliot turned and saw a very somber, slightly irritated-looking Penny in a suit standing before them.

“Q, seriously, man? I gave you the VIP experience, and you peaced out on me. You’re making me look bad. Would _you_ want to look bad in front of Hades?” Penny’s kinder, gentler Underworld makeover apparently only went so far.

Then again, if this had been the Penny Eliot knew before, he’d probably already have threatened grievous bodily harm.

Then again, could dead Penny assault dead Quentin?

These were pressing questions, apparently. What was Eliot’s life now?

Spreading his hands placatingly, Eliot said, “Penny, it’s so good to see you. Love the new look. Suits you.” He smirked. “Suits.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Penny replied, giving Eliot the world’s most put-out glare. Then he looked back to Quentin. “Honestly, Q, you were processed so fast. I was actually proud. I was like, ‘Man, look at Coldwater, ready to move on.’”

“I had a post-death visitation pass good for one visit and… I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened, exactly, but it’s really been… I mean, our conversation really did help clarify some things. I got the survey form, gave you top marks. Did you see that? I mean, it’s anonymous, but…” Quentin stood behind Eliot, probably not sure if Penny could just grab him or not. They were so off-script at this point, no one really knew anything.

“Don’t be cross with Quentin,” Eliot protested, going full Daddy-mode with Q hiding behind him like that. “He did exactly what he was supposed to do. He came to me for closure. It’s not his fault I was in Fillory, at the Mosaic cottage, where we did a truly staggering amount of sex magic over our fifty years together.”

He assumed this Penny knew all about that, if he’d conducted Quentin’s exit interview, but Penny made a face of shock, revulsion, and what had to be grudging admiration.  

Pressing on, Eliot said, “Anyway, Quentin appeared to me in a dream, and I…redirected that dream. You know, like…lucid dreaming, but with yet more sex magic. I think we restored the bond—like, a magical bond, not a cutesy emotional one—we’d had when we lived here before. Add in my discipline of telekinesis and Q’s mending, and we sort of…coalesced a form for him to inhabit and empowered him to partially manifest. It’s not _exactly_ like Ruggemar’s Sexual Binding, but it’s maybe a related spell, which we cast mostly silently, and you can really thank Trent from my semester at Brakebills South for helping me master silent sex magic—”

“No.” Penny cut him off, quite rudely. “I’m not going to need all those details. Jesus, Eliot. Perv.” Penny’s revolted admiration seemed to grow exponentially. “No. What I need is a solution to take to the people downstairs.”

Folding his arms across his suited chest—still so, _so_ weird to see his chest covered—Penny jutted his chin. “Quentin, you were supposed to pass on to the next life, brother. This is not that. But if I squint and tilt my head, it could maybe be that. You’re in the future, you’re _sort_ of reincarnated, in the strictest sense. Convince me not to drag you back to the Underworld.”

Eliot stiffened and extended his arms back, herding Q further behind him.

“Trent who?”

_Oh, Q._

“Trent doesn’t matter!” Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand and held it tight, though he didn’t take his gaze off Penny. “He was just a warm, willing body in a cold, miserable place. There have been any number of those in my life.”

Penny’s smirk indicated he was really enjoying this situation. He fucking would, wouldn’t he?

“Well, I mean, sure, but I don’t even remember a Trent at Brakebills. And why silent? Were you foxes?”

“Mayakovsky flunked him out,” Eliot answered, a little bitter at the memory even as Q’s badgering amused him. “He’s an accountant now. Silent because the crazy drunk Russian was making us learn wordless magic. Didn’t he do that to your year? I didn’t think he had the emotional energy to change up the curriculum.”

“Oh, no, we did do that,” Penny interjected. “We had to perform the Hammer Charm of Legrand. He stole all our voices until we could slam a nail through a board with magic. Sounds like you were doing the wrong kind of nailing, Eliot.”

“Yes, well, I’m an infamous fuck-up, Penny. Can we move along with this now?” Eliot was looking at the traveler, but the question was for Q. “Please?”

“Well, I mean, clearly I need to get to the bottom of this Trent thing. Though it sounds like Eliot’s already been there.” Quentin was behind him, so Eliot couldn’t see his expression, but it was starting to feel a little like Quentin was just trolling him now. “But reincarnation, what do I need to do for that? This isn’t going to get all weird like when that werewolf fell in love with a baby in that book, right?”

“Are you—” Penny’s lip curled in distaste. “Are you talking about _Twilight?_ Jesus, Q, have some dignity.”

“You knew _exactly_ what book I was talking about, Penny. Any secrets you took to the grave you care to confess now you’ve heard all of mine? You’re a secret Twihard, aren’t you? Oh, and you think Hades is going to give you shit for _me_ escaping? Just wait until I tell everyone in the Library.”

Eliot couldn’t see Quentin, but he could hear the savage satisfaction in his tone. He’d forgotten how antagonistic the former roommates could be toward one another. “Boys, boys, let’s play nice, yeah?”

“Sure, right after Q sucks my nuts.” Penny narrowed his gaze over Eliot’s shoulder, no doubt staring down Q.

“No, Penny, he’s not going to suck your nuts. We have an exclusivity thing going on. He only sucks _my_ nuts.” Eliot drawled it, stretching out the words lazily, and fought to keep his composure as things went more and more sideways.

“It’s true. And I only do those one at a time.” Quentin stepped to Eliot’s side. He was smirking at Penny, who was still more than an arm’s length away. “What can I do to make you look better to Hades? I really didn’t know this was going to happen. I wasn’t trying to make you look bad. I just…”

Quentin sighed and looked up at Eliot. “I had a chance to show Eliot how much I loved him, and I took it. And I don’t know the technicalities of it, just that things seemed to conspire to give us a second chance. It’s probably not fair for all sorts of reasons, but even if you still kind of hate me, doesn’t Eliot deserve a happy ending?”

“Whoa, Quentin, what?” Penny actually looked wounded. “I don’t hate you, man. Whatever frustrations I admittedly had with you when I was alive—and, worth noting, immediately after I died—have diminished in the afterlife. That’s old news. I genuinely want a happy fucking ending for the both of you.”

Eliot smiled, just a little, and slipped his arm around Quentin’s waist, reeling him in to keep him from doing anything inadvisable. “Good. So you were saying about reincarnation?”

“This isn’t how we typically approach that topic. You know that.” Penny sounded pained. “But it’s possible, due to the admittedly heroic nature of Quentin’s death, that I could swing that kind of argument.” He hesitated and then snorted. “You know, the reaper who came for you earlier… You made a real impression on him. He insisted you weren’t dead and were out of his jurisdiction.”

“Wait,” Eliot said. “Reaper singular? I saw at least a half-dozen.”

Penny rolled his eyes. “Cooper just does that sometimes. He likes to duplicate himself to create the illusion of being more intimidating than he is.”

“Ah.” Eliot widened his eyes and blinked, then looked to Quentin.

“Oh, so um… I’m not in his jurisdiction, which… what does that mean? I’m not dead?” He looked up at Eliot like he wasn’t sure what else he should say. “So Cooper isn’t going to reap me?”

Penny sighed, drawing Eliot’s attention briefly away from Q. “No, he’s not going to reap you. He’s been looking for you since you went AWOL, found you here finally, and was coming to bring you back, but after that little stunt you two pulled…”

Eliot snorted delicately, unable to suppress a grin. “Do go on.”

“Yeah, shove it, Eliot. You’re way too pleased with yourself. Anyway.” Penny’s eyes went wide, and he gave them both a look of mingled incredulity and…was that happiness? “Guess you’re technically alive again, Coldwater. For a value of the word.”

“He—” Quentin cleared his throat. “Told you what was… You know, never mind.”

He squeezed Eliot gently. “Does it really make you look bad, Penny? You did a really good job. I told Eliot that, didn’t I? I told you Penny was really nice now.”

“You did,” Eliot said, leaning into Quentin’s side. Looking to Penny, he added, “He did. Said you were super great and wonderful.”

Penny arched one black eyebrow and exhaled heavily. “Look, I can appreciate a star-crossed love story. I’ll do what I can for you.”

Then Penny disappeared.

“ _Shit_.” Quentin tensed and looked up at Eliot anxiously. “We forgot to ask about Hoberman. May as well call Cooper now. For the both of us.”

Eliot closed his eyes and licked his lips slowly. Then, with great feeling, he intoned, “ _Shit._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be real, they're ALL Twihards.


	8. Now It’s Getting Plotty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you remember The Napster?

Overnight, Eliot and Quentin fretted about what they’d say to Margo, or if they’d even tell her Penny had been by, but she hadn’t shown. Even though he worried, Quentin was glad to have the night—and Eliot—to himself. He didn’t bring up their earlier conversation again, but he was still feeling a little raw about it.

And if he was honest, still putting pieces together about what he felt and when he felt it.

In a lot of ways, it didn’t matter. What happened had happened, and there was no changing that. But it was Quentin’s habit to brood and ruminate, to examine and reexamine everything into insanity. When he didn’t… Well, he missed things like being in love with Eliot.

Eliot had been there so many times for him, and in return, well, Margo had handled a lot of Eliot’s needs.

Really, it was seeing him as High King that had started to slot things into place, even if that also drove a wedge between them.

Then, being alone together on that quest, not all, but many of their walls had come down.

That’s when Quentin started to have questions.

Questions he’d gone to the grave without answers to.

He wasn’t going to take this second chance for granted. He was gonna go after what he wanted, what he _really_ wanted, and not what he thought he should want.

Snuggling with Eliot all night was the best sleep he’d had in a while. It felt like old times.

They awoke when the sun streamed through the windows. No heavy breathing reptiles, no Margo. She hadn’t exactly said where she was going or how long she’d be gone, but if anyone could handle herself with giant hungry animals, it would be Margo.

Now that Quentin was freer to move about Fillory, perhaps they could start some recon.

He still wasn’t hungry. No real body to feed. But he sat on Eliot’s lap, watching him eat. “So, shall we storm the castle today?”

“Mm, Q, I’m hoping that’s a sex game, but I’m suspecting it’s really not.” El tugged Quentin’s hair at his nape and popped a piece of fruit in his own mouth. Chewing, he eyed Quentin with an air of languorous sophistication no one else could match. “You want to go on a mission, don’t you? Have an ill-advised adventure? We haven’t even gotten you a body yet.”

At that, El’s hand dropped from Quentin’s neck to his butt and goosed him.

“Maybe we can go on sexy recon. You know, finding little corners and crevices to have sex in while we try to get an idea of who is inside?” Quentin grinned, thinking how unruly that would be. Kinda crazy. “But either way I may need some magic dick. Might need a little boost the further we get from the cottage. Could be fun, right?”

Eliot’s dubious look suggested he’d rather stay put and magic some wine into being and like, prepare a celebration for Margo’s inevitable return, but he nodded. “I will never withhold my magic dick. Solemn vow.”

He squeezed Quentin’s butt again—the other cheek this time—and popped another slice of fruit into his smiling mouth, brows raised in challenge.

“I appreciate that you’re so giving with your magic wand.” Quentin was actually excited to do this. It had been a while since he’d seen Whitespire, and he was curious to see what changes had been made and who this new Dark King was.

Had Fillory been invaded by the Lorians? Was it another magician? Something totally other? Rogue Library employee? So many possibilities.

“So we should probably get you in something more Fillorian. We can go to the market, see if anyone sees me or not.”

“Oh god, the market.” Eliot’s brow furrowed. He gazed into the middle distance, dark eyes glazing over. He sighed and then looked up into Quentin’s face. “It’s been three hundred years and then some since we went to the market here. So much will have changed.”

When Arielle had been alive, they’d gone to the market all the time as a family. She’d sold peaches and plums from her family’s orchard, and Quentin and Eliot had helped her manage the bushels of fruit. Later, they had bounced Teddy on their shoulders or knees or galloped him around like they were his ponies. He’d liked Eliot especially because he was so tall…

Eliot’s gaze on Quentin’s shared the same loss, the same memories. He smiled a little, as if daring Quentin to return the smile.

“Can’t wait to see what they’ve done with the place.” Eliot inhaled deeply, eyes going wide, and then tilted his face to be kissed. Quentin complied happily and then lifted his head.

“You know, there may well be some Coldwater-Waughs there. That might be interesting, right? We left people, could be a whole town of them for all we know. A lot can happen in three hundred years.” Quentin smiled.

Even if there were, what could they do or say about it? It didn’t matter, really. They might not even see Quentin.

Back on Earth, Quentin just had his mom. The prospect of having generations of grandchildren held a certain terror but also an appeal. Maybe Fillory really was his home.

Something had come over Eliot. He blinked a couple times way too fast and then exhaled in a loud gust. “Wow. We could… I don’t… Would the time travel—Um.”

It was rare to see Eliot out of his depth. He cleared his throat and searched Quentin’s face. “You think Teddy’s kids’ kids might still be running around with our name?”

Was Eliot getting a little misty?

“Yeah. I think they might. I hope. Maybe they’d even have a little magic in them. We could teach them.” Quentin stroked Eliot’s hair gently, closing his eyes, imagining it. Of course, they might well be assholes, but he felt like they’d at least raised Ted well.

Hopefully none of them were Dark Kings. That would be…embarrassing at the very least.

“Maybe Fray and Humbledrum made some little abominations we could visit.”

Eliot recoiled, the moment lost. “Oh god. Q.” He sighed and gave Quentin a horrified look. “I would like to meet our grandkids, though.” He took a deep breath and then slid his hands into Quentin’s hair, pushing it back from his face, and drew him in for a slow kiss.

Unsurprisingly, Eliot tasted like the peach he’d been eating, and the flavor of it took Quentin back. It was so easy to be transported, to be lost in the sense memory of their long years together, of that perfect, frustrating, wonderful fucking lifetime.

Then Eliot broke the kiss and hugged Quentin against him. “It would…make all this more real, wouldn’t it? If somehow Teddy had really existed in this timeline. If we had descendants. It would mean we really were those people we remember, that we…”

“He had to have.” The thought that he might not hadn’t even crossed Quentin’s mind. “Jane got the key in the book, we kept the book canon on track, so Teddy should be part of the Fillorian world. It would just depend on, I think, whether he learned game from you or from me.”

Quentin grinned and nuzzled Eliot’s face. “If he was as bad at it as I was, there may be no heirs.”

Eliot looked stunned. He opened his mouth briefly and then closed it again with a soft snap of teeth. Then he ventured, very quietly, “But I remember, before I died, Teddy had kids. We visited with them. I… God, Q, I was so old, but they were so cute. They…”

He trailed off, appearing dumbfounded and touched. Then he looked into Quentin’s eyes again. “When… I just thought… It felt like it was all erased, when Margo came back with the key and stopped us from going back through to Fillory.” He hesitated and then asked, “But if it wasn’t true, how would we remember?”

After a beat, he asked, “Do you think the Time Key has anything to do with…all this? Us landing here three hundred years in Fillory’s future? Us being here, where the Time Key was secured?”

“If it wasn’t true, then how was it in the books? Because the Witch and the Fool was Julia and me, so that time did happen. That’s why our magic was centered on it. It _must_ have something to do with the Time Key. This is where Fillory needs us. She needs our help.” Quentin smiled wanly. “She may also have a romantic heart bringing me to you to help, but she did initially bring her kings back, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. I just—Bambi stopped us from going through the clock and—” Eliot was apparently doing some complex mental contortions trying to come to terms with the situation. Then he waved it off. “I don’t care. Let’s go find our great-great-um-great-great? grandkids.”

Now he was beaming, like there was nothing in the world he’d like more than to go meet a few Coldwater-Waughs.

Quentin was pretty excited by the idea himself. “Margo stopped us, which kept us in this timeline, but that was also part of _this_ timeline because the mosaic was solved. If we hadn’t been there, who would’ve solved it?”

He was starting to see why peyote was necessary to understand all of this. But it wasn’t a different dimension; it was an altered timeline with its own loop that they’d circled back to, and, well, they’d never get anywhere if they spent all day thinking about it.

Taking Eliot’s hand, Quentin stepped from the cottage and through the wards. Thus far, the mosaic area had remained pretty private, as it had always been. There wasn’t much to recommend it as a long-term dwelling. The well was hard to use if you weren’t magical, and the walk to the market was long.

As they walked, they began to get a better idea of what the Dark King meant for Fillory. Armed guards in black livery ranged freely, riding horses whose mouths appeared gagged.

Since Quentin wasn’t sure if he’d be seen or not and Eliot couldn’t exactly identify himself, they stuck to the tree line, making it easier to hide when necessary.

It used to be that strangers on the path were rare but happy to share pleasantries despite the ever-changing politics of Fillory. Now all they saw were grim-looking patrols.

Would the future Coldwater-Waughs be part of this regime? Or would they have stuck to Arielle’s family farm? Ted had been set to inherit it. Quentin and Eliot had visited him there, but their obligation to the mosaic had kept them from staying long.

“This is fucking fun,” Eliot muttered as they hid in the brush yet again, crouching low to avoid being spotted. He leaned into Quentin’s side, knuckles white on his walking stick. This posture couldn’t be good for his wound.

Eventually the guards passed around a turn in the road, and Eliot and Quentin emerged from their hiding place. The long walk maybe wasn’t the greatest thing for El. He wasn’t at full strength, and probably all the sex had been rough on his recovery.

But Quentin felt great, honestly. He was pretty solid, and when he reached for it, Eliot’s power flowed through him effortlessly. Not to mention, he wasn’t due to get dragged back to the Underworld anytime soon, which…bonus. He’d just stick around and take care of Eliot like Eliot had always taken care of him.

By the time they finally reached the village at the heart of the Southern Orchard, it was apparent nearly everything had changed. The quaint thatch-roofed cottages that had made up Applecart in their time had been largely rebuilt of austere, rough stone, maybe for better defensibility and endurance. Eliot’s somber expression echoed Quentin’s heavy heart. This place had been so beautiful once, their only real social center, and now it was almost unrecognizable.

Where the open-air market had once dominated the small town, now a large, raw-boned building loomed with a barn-sized door manned by two guards. These, at least, wore not the Dark King’s black livery but the homespun popular even in Quentin’s time here. Probably locals then, though they didn’t look friendly when Eliot headed toward them. Their gazes seemed not to notice Quentin.

“Hail, friends. I’m from…Brighthaven. Looking for…relatives. The Coldwater-Waugh family? And maybe some new clothes.” Eliot made it sound so casual, like it wasn’t all an extraordinarily fraught proposition.

Quentin wished he could hold Eliot’s hand through it, but that would draw attention they couldn’t afford.

The guards looked confused, which Eliot didn’t help by continuing to talk. “I’m a city boy, obviously, but I need a change of togs, and I thought, hey, while I’m in the area, I might as well look into my genealogy.”

Possibly the fact Eliot was all in black mourning garb didn’t help his case any. With his height and the color scheme, he kind of resembled the patrols they’d been avoiding.

The women traded looks. “A city boy? Asking about, what was that? Genies? Magic is illegal to practice. You’ll find no genies here. This is a respectable market. Private.”

No magic? That didn’t sound promising.

And after he died to bring it back and everything.

He didn’t think he should say anything, surely that would be difficult to explain.

“No, no, not genies. Magic! Egad, no.” Eliot made his eyes big and horrified like magic just really grossed him out. “No, genealogy, the study of one’s family line. It’s a…city boy thing. Anyway!” He rapped his cane against the cobblestones and donned a charming smile. “Coldwater-Waughs used to live around here. They had an orchard with peaches and plums they sold here in Applecart at this very market. That’s been…ohhh three hundred-fifty years ago now. I was just…you know, wondering if any of them were left in these parts.”

The guards looked at each other warily and then back at Eliot. The one on the right with dark twists of hair and deep, wide eyes squinted at him. “Is this a test? Are you a spy? You look like a spy. You have to tell us if you’re a spy.”

“I don’t think they have to tell us.” The other guard, a shorter woman, stout with her hair pulled back severely. “And you don’t look like any city boy that I’ve ever seen. Brighthaven is barely a city since before the giant ants took over. Who are you?”

Quentin blinked. Giant ants? Well, he supposed that could be. There was a lot that the books apparently didn’t cover, but he supposed that would be something else they’d have to fix.

“My name’s Eliot—”

That was as far as he got. The guards’ faces paled, their eyes widening.

“Is that… Is that the wrong answer?” Eliot didn’t look at Quentin, but Quentin could sense he wanted to. This was all going sideways now. Eliot’s charming smile dimmed, just a bit, beleaguered by the panic Quentin saw simmering underneath.

The two guards got together, whispering, but not very quietly, about the Dark King and spies and the lack of guards.

They stopped, looked him up and down and redoubled their whispers about Coldwater-Waughs, seeming to be stuck on Waugh.

“One moment, please.” The wide-eyed woman slipped through the door while the stout woman stood, eyeing Eliot with suspicion.

“Who _are_ you that you dare speak the Dark King’s name? The _only_ E—” She seemed to choke on the name, as if she couldn’t even say it, whether through magic or fear. “Is the Dark King to whom we are loyal and have paid rightful tariffs to.”

“The Dark King’s name is Eliot?” Now Eliot’s smile faded into something far more subdued. He tilted his head to the side and appraised the remaining guard. “What a coincidence. As I was saying, my name is Eliot, and I am looking for the Coldwater-Waugh family. Do any of them still live in the Southern Orchard?”

“No. There has been no one by that name living in the Southern Orchard. There were Coldwawas,” she said and then she spit on the ground, “Forever may they burn. You cannot be named Eliot. There is one Eliot in all the land.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m getting that.” Eliot’s brow furrowed, and he mouthed, “Coldwawas?”

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “So call me El. Anyway, like fifteen generations ago, I was related to Theodore Rupert Coldwater-Waugh. Are you telling me his family became…Coldwawas?” Eliot said the word like it left a gross residue in his mouth. “And that they’re…burning? Can you tell me where they might be burning? Is there like a specific location for their conflagration?”

“Con-what?” The guard tilted her head, but before Eliot could clarify, the door cracked open and someone shrouded in a green cloak hobbled out, clutching a stick.

The skin that showed was inhumanly pale, and she had an interesting shimmer to her eyes, at least, what Quentin could see of them.

She eyed Eliot, and then her gaze rested briefly on Quentin. Could she see him?

“Not a spy. Come. Come inside.” It sounded almost menacing, but they were magicians. They could handle it.

Well, a magician and a half.

There was something odd about her, as if her pained movements were put on. It could be a trap.

Still, Eliot gave her a tiny, polite bow and followed her inside. Quentin had to hurry to slip in behind him before the guard closed the door behind them. The moment it did, they were plunged into near darkness. It took Quentin’s eyes a moment to adjust to the change in brightness, and Eliot squinted too, looking around with his back to the door as if ready to take on whatever challenge Applecart threw at him. At least he shared Quentin’s uncertainty.

“So, hello,” Eliot said, sounding simultaneously wary and charismatic. “I’m El, and I’m looking for a new wardrobe and some information on the…Coldwawas?”

It appeared to be an empty building with boarded up or barred windows. Like one of those gutted Middle American towns where only the liquor store and pawn shop were open anymore.

Eliot’s words echoed in the emptiness.

The old woman moved ahead of them, padding over the hard floor with a soft rattle that was hard to place. She took them to the end of the row of shops and through a beaded curtain. Once through it, it looked as if they were back outside, but a happier outside, less grim, more reminiscent of the orchard and the marketplace they remembered.

The old woman straightened and tipped back her green hood, revealing her bald cat head.

“Napster!” Quentin cried out, forgetting in his excitement that he wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Napster?” Eliot looked blank for a second, probably thinking of the file sharing service, and then realization dawned. “Shit, you’re the Questing Creature Margo and Fen talked to.” Margo had told them all about _that_ debacle not long after Quentin manifested at the cottage.

Then Eliot’s expression darkened. “Do you know what happened to Fen?” After a moment, he exhaled sharply and added, “And Josh Hoberman. Jesus. Why is he so forgettable?”

“Acting High King Fen was deposed three centuries ago.” The Napster said this with a weary air. “Shortly thereafter, all the Questing Creatures went into hiding. I’ve been waiting here ever since for you to return. I _tried_ to visit you in your dreams, as is my usual method, former High King Eliot, but you apparently don’t think about anything except copulating with former King Quentin. It’s _impossible_ to get your attention. Your capacity for lucid dreaming is remarkable.”

A humiliated thrill overtook Quentin, but Eliot just smirked.

“Yes, well, I do have extensive practice.”

He didn’t specify whether he meant the copulating with Quentin part or the lucid dreaming. The answer to that would probably be “yes.”

After a moment’s gloating, Eliot backtracked. “You say Fen was deposed. I assume Hoberman went with her?”

The Napster shook her head, ears twitching. “They separated to evade the Dark King’s notice. Hoberman went in search of deposed High King Margo, I believe, but remained in Fillory in hiding. Former acting High King Fen went looking for her husband.”

The Napster didn’t exactly call Eliot out as an abominable husband, but the look she was giving him was either deeply feline or displeased. Possibly, again, both.

It would’ve been three hundred years, and as far as Quentin knew, Fen didn’t have magic. Josh might well have found a way out, but if she wasn’t with him, then could she have gotten out alone?

Until that moment, Quentin didn’t realize how sure he’d been that they were okay. That Penny would’ve saved them, or something. But would Fillory have allowed that?

How in control was Penny when it came to traveling in Fillory? And the Penny from the twenty-third timeline didn’t have much of a bond with them either.

Josh, well, he was pretty scrappy. Quentin never knew when they might find him in a musical pocket dimension. If he was alive somewhere, he was pretty sure Margo could find him.

Quentin put his hand on Eliot’s back gently to reassure him. He wasn’t entirely sure how Eliot felt about Fen, but at the very least, they’d shared many experiences together and were friends. She’d been the mother of his child.

Maybe Quentin should change the subject. “So, um, now that we’ve found you, should we make a wish?”

The Napster held up her hands…paws…whatever. “Please don’t. If I must expend magic, it will likely be traced. It could put the whole community in jeopardy.”

“So that’s all you’ve got?” Eliot’s tone was flat, dead. “My wife went looking for me, and she’s probably dead hundreds of years ago, and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

He sounded dangerous in that way he had, more noticeable now that Quentin had spent so much time with the Monster. It made the hairs on his neck stand up.

The Napster seemed to feel it too. She frowned. “I never said there was nothing you can do about it. You just can’t make a wish.”

She looked between them and then studied Quentin intently. “I knew you would be back. The Time Key left its mark on you. All those time loops, all those magical lifetimes. Jane Chatwin wielded the key far longer, but she only had it because of you, Quentin Coldwater, former king of Fillory.”

“Is that a hint? Can I… Is there a way for me to find Fen?” Quentin wasn’t sure that he loved that she was so casually wife to Eliot and talk like that seemed to make Eliot break out in hives, but Eliot had also given up a lot to be High King. And really, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Eliot if he could possibly do it.

“That is another quest for another day. You came seeking knowledge about your progeny, and in that regard, you’ve cut it very close.” The Napster regarded them both somberly. “They truncated the name to Coldwawa many generations ago due to some misunderstandings regarding hyphenates after a land dispute, but the entirety of the family was banished to the Wandering Desert after the first magical purge. It was assumed that they would die there.”

“Did they?” Eliot seemed suddenly unsure of himself, and he reached for Quentin’s hand as if on reflex. “Are they still there?”

“Ted Coldwater-Waugh had many children, some of them daughters who wedded into other families’ lines and forfeited their maiden names. The sons, however, have passed down that name in the form of Coldwawa” —as the Napster spoke, Eliot turned to look at Quentin and mouthed _Coldwawa_ in abject horror— “to this day.”

“So how do we help them? How do we…” Eliot gestured almost violently with the hand not clasping Quentin’s. He sounded on the edge of desperation, far from his usual smug chill. “We _must_ restore Fillory. It’s obvious we were brought here—brought back together—for a reason.”

“There’s a reason I visit people in their dreams. You ask entirely too many questions.” The Napster looked like she might go take a catnap somewhere in the sunshine and ignore them altogether.

She must’ve seen the need in their faces, though. Their frustration. After a moment, she said, “The only Coldwawa I know yet to live is young Janet Coldwawa, your descendant. She’s held in Whitespire as ward to the Dark King. Like you, she is a magician; some remnant of your power has continued in that line, though it is greatly diluted by Fillorian blood. If you intend to rescue her, you must hurry. Her thirteenth birthday approaches, and the Dark King intends to wed her then as a show of alliance toward all magical Fillorians.”

The Napster didn’t sound as if she believed that for a minute. After all, if magic was outlawed… And “magical purge”? What was that about?

Then it sank in that their great, great, great, a few more greats granddaughter was being held captive by the Dark King and forced to marry him—

“On her thirteenth birthday?” Eliot interjected, looking as outraged as Quentin felt.

“As is custom.”

Quentin felt sick, though he didn’t really have a stomach or anything to vomit. The _wrongness_ of a child bride—related to him or not—made him want to storm the castle immediately.

_And do what?_

“What happened to her parents?” Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand hard.

“Ah, well, Queen Alice and her husband Queliot were murdered in the last purge, about ten years ago. Dark King Eliot discovered that they had survived for generations of a matriarchy King Margo set up in the Wandering Desert.”

Quentin furrowed his brow. “Alice and…Queliot?”

“No one else may be named Eliot so long as—”

Quentin waved her on. “Yeah, I got that part.”

“It was a family name, passed down to recognize their forefathers, as well as Arielle. Margos and Alices were also very popular outside of the kingdom—names that are banned inside it. Which is why Margo became Janet when she was stolen to Whitespire.”

Eliot leaned on his walking stick, looking peaked. “This has just surpassed my weirdness quota for the day.” His troubled gaze moved from the Napster to Quentin. “This Dark King motherfucker’s got _my_ name and _our_ granddaughter. This is personal. We have to do something, Q.”

Quentin studied Eliot, wondering if this Dark King might also have Eliot’s face. In another timeline, Quentin had been the Beast. There was a lot of looping going on, and Quentin was fully aware of how possessive Eliot was of his name in the Physical Kids cottage. And that was just at school.

“No one else survived in the Wandering Desert?” Quentin wasn’t sure if he should share his theory with Eliot. It was… Well, if his weirdness quota was already filled, they might not make it home.

The Napster shook her head. “No. And she is set to marry in three days. So you should probably consider finding a body for yourself.”

_Oh thanks, hadn’t thought of that._

Quentin gave her a tight smile.

“At any rate, it is time for my nap. If you wish to communicate with me, consider not copulating.” The Napster eyed them, then turned around three times in ponderous circles, and lay down.

Quentin wanted to ask her something else, but then she brought her leg up over her head and started to lick herself. He took that as the cue for them to leave.

As they crossed back into the dim building, Eliot moved with great dignity and rapping cane toward what looked like it had been a tailor’s shop. A few Southern Orchard-style garments hung from racks inside.

“I’m liberating some new fashion, and then we’re committing to reconnaissance at Whitespire. I want eyes on our little Janet-Margo Coldwater-Waugh.” Eliot flipped through the items, looking for things long enough for his lanky frame probably. Then he glanced to Quentin and smiled, just a bit. “We have family here, Q. How about that?”

“Yeah, a family about to be _Game of Thrones_ ’ed into some sort of weird marriage. She’s his ward? He _raised_ her? She’s _thirteen._ ” Quentin watch Eliot sort through the clothing. “I like that purple one better. And I need a body. Three days?”

Eliot obligingly selected the purple tunic set and smiled a little wider. “Three days. We’ll figure something out. In the end, we always manage. We’re going to have our happy ending, Q, no matter what I have to do to get there.”

That was comforting, at least to an extent. Quentin supposed the fact he died and came back demonstrated his own dedication to their cause. “Pick out something for me, too. I’ll need it for when I get a body.”

“Ooh you know I love when you’re my dress-up dolly.” Eliot’s leer was back.

Mission accomplished.


	9. Oh There You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo bangs it out. Eliot traumatizes Josh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, if you know what I mean.

_Three hundred years ago in Fillory…_

Josh Hoberman ran for his life. He didn’t especially like running, or really any cardio except dancing and fucking. Running for his life was next level shit. His stamina would probably be better if he worked out more and smoked less, but that was just not the Hoberman way.

Besides, until Margo thought Josh’s stamina was a problem, it wasn’t a problem.

Except, he needed to keep running, or he was going to die. The Dark King would make sure of that. Or rather, his minions would. Josh hadn’t actually laid eyes on the Dark King. He seemed to be a pretty stereotypical evil overlord, sending a never-ending horde of what appeared to be undead directly at Whitespire. His general—some kind of demon maybe?—had deposed Fen, and he would’ve killed her if Josh hadn’t magicked their way the hell out of there.

Afterward, they parted ways when they couldn’t agree on a strategy. Josh wanted to find a Questing Creature—it was pretty much the standard response, right?—but Fen wanted to find Eliot. Under usual circumstances, Josh would expect Eliot to be with Margo, which would be an automatic agreement, but with the Monster in charge… Well.

Fen’s devotion was touching, really, but someone _had_ to do _something_ about the Dark King. Josh wasn’t going to pass the buck. He’d fix this himself.

Somewhere on the way to the Darkling Woods, the wolf inside took over, and then he could just lope along forever. Much easier sometimes to be a lycanthrope. Why did he always fight it so hard?

Ah, the bloodshed and instinct to maim. Right.

In fact, partially wolfed out, hunting down the Great Cock posed no problem. His distinctive scent and emanations of magical energy made it easy to zero in. However, Josh did have some impulse control issues with not attacking him.

Whoops.

Thankfully, the Great Cock deflected Josh’s semi-brainless assault and knocked him on his ass and his senses back into him. He started to flit away, but Josh yelped, “Wait!”

Throwing himself at the Great Cock’s feet, he said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. The wolf took over for a minute, but I’m not—I swear I’m not a mindless killing machine. But there _is_ a mindless killing machine in Fillory, and he’s taken Castle Whitespire. I need your help. _We_ need your help.”

“We?” The Great Cock looked around, blinking and puzzled.

“Oh um, me and my friends? My girlfriend’s High King Margo?”

Well, she was _sort_ of his girlfriend? He was pretty sure they were a thing now.

Josh pulled a face, and then tried another expression, and then another. None of them had the effect he wanted.

“High King Margo,” the Cock repeated. “She was banished.”

“Yes, by acting High King Fen, but trust me it was all your sister the Napster’s idea.” Josh hoped that wasn’t the wrong thing to say. Was that the wrong thing to say?

The Cock’s inscrutable face gave little away.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Then the Cock snorted delicately. “Yes, my sister has a strange sense of humor, doesn’t she?”

Nodding vigorously, Josh tried a smile. It worked. The Cock’s expression eased.

Thank fuck.

“Well, it’s unfortunately pointless to set you and your friends a quest. Fillory is entering a new season. The Questing Creatures are all going into hiding until it passes. You should consider doing the same.” The Great Cock’s imperiousness and flamboyant outfit reminded Josh painfully of Eliot. Margo had entrusted Josh with the kingdom—well, kind of—so she could help Eliot, and Josh couldn’t let her down.

A guy like Hoberman just didn’t disappoint a woman like Margo Hanson and live to tell the tale.

“That’s—That’s it? That’s all you’ve got for me?” Josh asked incredulously.

The Cock tilted its head to the side in a supremely birdlike gesture. “Go to the Clock Barrens just beyond these woods. You will find an answer there.”

Then the Great Cock was gone, faster than Josh’s exhausted senses could properly track, and he sighed. “The Clock Barrens. Great.”

At least it was a lead.

Josh ran on.

The trip from the Darkling Woods to the Clock Barrens took no time at all compared to how his lungs had ached and his muscles had burned coming from Whitespire. Hope sustained him. Hope, and sexually-transmitted lycanthropy. He’d never imagined he’d be so grateful for it.

He’d heard a little about the Clock Barrens from Margo, but she hadn’t wanted to talk much about her time there. Something about a dead woman and needing charcoal shampoo to wash the stink out of her hair. What he saw was nothing he was prepared for.

Barrens implied…well…barren. But the Clock Barrens sustained a grove of clock trees, all growing from soil liberally interspersed with clockwork parts. Josh’s discipline was herbalism, and he felt already an affinity for the clock trees. Was he supposed to turn back time to fix things? Turn time forward? Make time…stand still?

Josh wasn’t sure. The Great Cock hadn’t exactly given him much guidance.

Welp. Time to wing it.

One clock tree more than any other drew Josh’s attention. A tall, strong, broad-limbed tree perfect for climbing, with luxurious shade Josh loved to relax in while he thought about his predicament. So he thought, and he soaked up the subtle plant-ish energies of the clock tree, and he smoked some pot. By sundown, his gut told him he was onto something. Maybe it was the pot talking—Josh’s strains were known for their high potency and magical side-effects—but he suspected not.

That night, he used his magic to connect with the clock tree. He communed with it. He nurtured it. And the tree responded. Time seemed to dilate. _Something_ was happening.

Josh wasn’t entirely aware of the days passing anymore. Sometimes it was daylight, and sometimes it was night, but he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He just smoked, hung out with his tree, and kept nurturing. He was good at nurturing. It was one of his skills.

Then his gut told him to climb the tree, settle into the natural saddle formed by a juncture of branch and trunk, and just _relax._

So he did.

Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the ground, staring up into the tree’s canopy. It was considerably more massive than he recalled.

“Hoberman! Hoberman! Wake _up_!” The tree’s canopy was replaced by Margo’s panicked-looking face. Then he felt a hard slap against his cheek. “What’s wrong with him?”

Who was she asking?

Josh turned his head to see a giant turtle’s snout heading toward him. It was probably time to move. Struggling to his feet, Josh blinked and backed toward the tree, ready to climb back up and away from that fucking enormous reptile.

“Mar—Margo?” Josh stuttered, holding up his hands, ready to cast a defensive spell if that thing came any closer.  Breathing hard, he dared a glance away from the turtle to take in Margo’s beautiful face. “Hey, honey. I was just…doing some herbalism. Um.”

 “For three hundred years?” Her eyes were glassy as if she was overwhelmed with emotion but was fighting it hard. Then she flung herself at him, pulling him into a fraught kiss. “You know what? I don’t care. Take your clothes off.”

 

~*~

 

“So, Quentin, Margo is…not here.” Eliot finished exploring inside the wards and returned to the front of the cottage. “We don’t have time for… Well. For anything. Three days, Cat Lady said.” He paused, gripping tight to his cane. “We have to find Margo. We need her for this. We’ve got a wedding-slash-birthday-party to crash.”

Quentin nodded, getting back some of that manic energy he had when they were on a quest. “She shouldn’t be that hard to find if she’s with a fifty-foot snapping turtle. Do you think the Dark King may have found her?”

Eliot inhaled sharply. “Like you said, a giant snapping turtle is hard to miss. So maybe?” Flapping one hand, Eliot whispered, “I’m freaking out a little right now.”

“We could try a locator spell.” Quentin took Eliot’s hand so he could open the cottage door and headed for the bed.

Oh, one of _those_ locator spells? Not that Eliot was against it.

Quentin knelt on the bed, neglecting to take his clothes off, which seemed like—Well, perhaps he was also freaking out and feeling a little forgetful.

His ass was up, giving Eliot a very attractive view of his pert little bottom under those jeans, his head down close to the mattress. But he didn’t seem braced for anything; it looked like he was scanning the bed. As Eliot started to line up behind him, hands going for Q’s waist to undo the jeans, Quentin popped up, almost knocking Eliot back.

“Got it!” He turned, seeming surprised by how close Eliot was, holding a long, dark strand of hair between them.

“Ohh.” Realization dawned. Eliot felt mildly like an idiot. Then, undeterred, he reached for Q’s waistband again. “While Bambi’s hair is no doubt very helpful for whatever locator spell you’re thinking of, I have a vastly preferable one that would involve both of our relaxation afterward.”

Eliot pushed the button through the buttonhole and grinned into Q’s face. “Oops.”

“Sex magic to locate someone?” Quentin’s brows furrowed as he held on to the hair, seeming baffled by the possibility but not against it. Eliot slid his hands down the front of Q’ jeans, disengaging the zipper. Q’s breathing grew unsteady as Eliot fondled him. “How?”

“Mm let Daddy show you a new trick.” Eliot leaned in to kiss Quentin and massaged Q’s dick through his underwear, his own cock stirring happily. “But first I’m going to need you to discard Margo’s hair. As beautiful as her hair is, its presence is not conducive to getting you naked.”

Once Q threw the hair aside, Eliot slid Quentin’s jeans down to his thighs and then did the same with his underwear. Quentin’s hardening cock sprang free, jutting from beneath his shirt, and Eliot gave it an admiring look before gazing into Quentin’s eyes. “This is going to involve a lot of bodywork. Get ready. Deep breaths.”

Then he shoved Q back onto the bed, stripped naked, and pounced as best he could with his side still healing. He got his hands under the hem of Q’s shirt and pushed it up and over his head, leaving it around his upper arms in a makeshift binding. Then he nuzzled Q’s neck and the hollow of his throat, biting along the ridges of bone and sinew. It seemed like Eliot should be tired of this after so many years together—he’d always gotten bored so quickly in the past, really—but now…

Well, he could think of nothing more profoundly comforting with Margo missing than just diving dick-first into Q’s body and working some magic.

Smiling, he booped Q’s nose and murmured, “I promise you can top once I’m all better, but for now, it’s yet another round of hardcore—yet tender—pounding for your cute little butt.”

“Not entirely sure what your injury has to do with it, but I’m never going to say no to a tender pounding.” Quentin grinned, pushing lightly against the binding of his shirt. “Also not entirely sure what this has to do with locations or Margo, unless you think that’s where she’s gotten to.”

Quentin wiggled his hips, squirming to get his legs free of clothing. “Should I ask?”

Rolling his eyes, Eliot turned to help Q strip his lower body. “It’s a gut wound, Q. Lipson implied I shouldn’t—” He sighed as he realized. “I fail. I was supposed to avoid…um…overutilizing that region of my anatomy. But I already have, just with a walking stick, which sounds… just so much worse.” Eliot reflected for a moment on his reckless dedication to pleasure and then huffed a laugh. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

Then Q was naked, and Eliot returned to kissing him, meanwhile stroking runic letters into Quentin’s bare skin with his fingertips. “This is called Sigurdr’s Tracking, and it is both a tracking spell _and_ a locator spell. It will not only tell us where Margo is, but will update us on her movements as long as we continue screwing. It’s really useful when you’re trying not to get caught.”

“Not get caught at what?” Quentin looked down at the sparks and remnants left from where Eliot had traced into him. Then he seemed to remember who Eliot was and rolled his eyes, letting out a little chuckle.

“Oh El. You really are a mess.” Quentin squirmed against the restraint of his shirt, parting his legs for Eliot, so obviously he wasn’t such a mess that Quentin didn’t want him. “A beautiful mess. So what has to happen? Do we need to think about her or is it all you?”

“ _You_ just think about me, okay? Don’t talk, don’t change what I’m doing, just…submit.” Eliot smiled and formed the motions of a lubrication spell before reaching down with slippery fingers to stroke Quentin’s cleft.

Quentin nodded and arched into the touch. They’d played games like this before, games where Q needed to be a sweet boy for Daddy and do what he was told. Eliot had played those games with other people too, in both roles, but he’d never loved it like he did when Q just surrendered to him.

It was in Quentin’s nature to obey authority. He’d been a top-tier student like everyone else who made it through Brakebills, but it was more than that; Quentin was eager to please, desperate to be told he was good enough. It wouldn’t be hard to manipulate him, if that was what Eliot wanted to do, but for the longest time now, all Eliot had wanted was to make Quentin feel _amazing_.

So much negativity lived in Quentin’s head, so much melancholy and self-doubt. As Eliot pushed his fingers into Quentin’s tight heat, he thought of Quentin’s unassuming beauty, his loyal and giving spirit, and he let his love flow into Quentin. Maybe Quentin didn’t need a re-up yet, but it couldn’t hurt. After everything he’d been through, he deserved more than to be treated as a battery.

As one hand worked inside Quentin’s snug passage, the other traced the runes of the spell into Quentin’s skin in a spray of sparks that Eliot knew from experience tingled pleasantly, just on the edge of pain. They consecrated Quentin’s body to this magic, committed his sexual energy to the spell.

Eliot thought of the night he and Margo had bedded Quentin together, the way Q had been just horny, confused, inexperienced. The way he’d been so awed by every trick they threw at him. It was more than just Quentin’s first threesome; it was his first exposure to expert sex.

Margo had given them that gift, double-edged blade that it had been, and now they needed to find Margo. Eliot pulled his fingers from Quentin, who squirmed a little but didn’t protest, though his empty entrance kept grasping for more, and Quentin’s hard cock suggested he’d very much enjoyed his little prostate massage.

Eliot grasped his own cock in his slippery hand and drew sizzling runes down its length, groaning both at the sensation and the anticipation on Q’s face as he watched. Even without words, it was clear Quentin wanted Eliot, wanted to be fucked, wanted to be taken. He was so much more than the confused boy he’d once been, so much more than he appeared to be even now, with his pretty, unlined face. He had an old soul now, one that had seen lifetimes, and with all that wisdom, he chose Eliot.

Struggling to focus on the spell instead of Quentin’s perfect little pout, Eliot spoke in Old Norse, giving form and shape to the magic that coursed through them and radiated from each rune drawn. Then Eliot positioned himself just so and pressed forward, feeding his cock into Quentin’s greedy body an inch at a time, a rune at a time. It felt like fucking heaven, the spell lighting them up from within, amplifying every touch. Eliot closed his eyes, fighting for control, and spoke the ancient words even as he leaned in to kiss Quentin, unable to resist the softness of his mouth, the hitched little breaths he made.

He thrust in as deep as Kenaz, the rune of fire and light, and strained to hold back, to go no deeper. He thrust Kenaz into Quentin over and over, just half his shaft, just as far as _light_. He pulled out slowly, just two inches, and then thrust Raido into Quentin, the journey. Panting, Eliot fucked Quentin deeper, as deep as Nauthiz, _need._ Oh gods, Eliot felt that need. His balls had drawn up tight already, the magic overpowering.

Between their bodies, a staticky glow formed, feeding on their joining. It expanded as Eliot fucked Quentin as deep as Dagaz, the rune of day, of clarity, of _revelation_. Quentin’s body arched beneath Eliot’s, so tempting, so effortlessly seductive. All Q ever had to do to utterly bewitch Eliot was need him this way. With a pained little grunt, Eliot lifted his head to stare into Q’s eyes, gleaming now with violet magic and pupils blown wide and black.

Then they saw her, but not through the magic like intended.

 “I was going to ask if you missed me, but I see you’ve pulled out all the stops. Sigurdr’s, El?” Margo stood in the doorway gazing at them with real fondness.

Quentin started to sit up but was hampered by his shirt. “Margo!”

“Don’t let me stop you.” She smirked.

Josh peeked in over her shoulder. “Are they— Oh, hey guys. I’m just going to…look at literally anything else.”

“It’s okay, Josh. I promise it’s not contagious. You can watch; it won’t make you queer.” Eliot batted his lashes at Josh, so overwhelmed with relief that he almost released the spell. He turned his face toward Margo and puckered his lips until she came over to peck them. Then he smiled and returned his focus to Quentin.

“This spell _always_ works,” Eliot said, deeply satisfied. Then he pushed Quentin back flat on the bed with one hand against his chest and started thrusting in earnest.

Margo turned toward Josh and then dragged him out. “But if it makes you horny at all, I’m DTF.”

“Again?”

“Always.”

Josh turned back to give them the thumbs up and vanished back through the door.

Quentin had gone from looking mortified, to eyes closed, blocking out everything but Eliot inside of him. Even though he was somewhat limited in mobility, he lifted his hips, raising to meet each stroke, biting his bottom lip, brow furrowed.

The magic coursed through them, giving flashes of where Margo was, but Eliot could feel Quentin fighting the visions now, trying to focus solely on Eliot. “Touch me. Please, El. Fuck.”

Eliot sighed and leaned in to kiss Quentin hard, devouring his mouth with mingled relief and pleasure. Everything was right in the world, and he had nothing to do now but pursue pleasure. Grinning against Quentin’s mouth, Eliot whispered, “Wrap your legs around me, sweet boy.”

When Quentin obliged, Eliot reached between them to curl his slippery fingers around Q’s neglected cock and stroke. Then Eliot fucked him harder, faster, as deep as Wunjo— _joy._ The magic’s purpose had been served, but it still glistened and crackled around them, sharpening sensations, provoking bliss.

This had been a spell Eliot used mostly for nefarious purposes, but seeing how Quentin responded to the runes—the way he lost himself in open-mouthed, throaty pleasure—transformed it. Cheeks rosy, face glistening, Quentin was so beautiful.

When he took Eliot’s mouth, he almost seemed to be saying something, as if talking through the kiss, adding to the magic. Then Eliot felt pressure deep inside him, pressing at that spot, pulling at Eliot’s magic to gently stimulate him.

Clever boy.

“Oh, _Q_.” Eliot made a little sound of delight and shivered all over, jerking Q’s cock faster. He couldn’t help writhing a little, squirming at the directionless, disembodied teasing. Clenching around it, he fucked into Quentin with long, deep strokes, from fire to joy and back again, runes sparking and zinging. It grew more difficult to breathe, more difficult to control his thrusts, and Eliot lowered his face to Quentin’s throat and groaned into the juncture of neck and shoulder before biting down on a wail of delight.

Quentin tilted his head away, offering himself up. He grew louder, completely abandoned to the pleasure. He let out a hard shout against Eliot’s temple, panting, raggedy. His body shuddered as he let go into Eliot’s hand.

A strange energy shot through Eliot at that release, one that eased his aches, warmed his injury, lessening the pain, making it feel more stable. Eliot didn’t have time to think about it, though. In a few deeper, satisfying strokes, he was coming too, filling Quentin with the remainder of the spell’s energy and crying out his triumph.

Gradually he stopped pumping gingerly into Quentin and accepted that sex was over for now—he’d have liked it to continue forever—and slumped over onto his side with a throaty sigh. “Q,” he whispered, smiling. “Oh, Q. That was…”

Lazily, Eliot lifted his sticky fingers to Quentin’s lips. Quentin sucked Eliot’s fingers into his mouth, eyes closed as if he was just enjoying the quiet moment. Then he pulled his arms out of the tangle of his shirt and opened his eyes to gaze into Eliot’s.

“Pretty amazing. I felt… I felt the magic flowing through me. Felt _you_ flowing through me. Like, full of you and not just…I mean… I guess I felt like… like maybe things will work out.”

“Of course they will, Q.” Eliot rolled onto his side facing Quentin and leaned in to kiss his forehead. He rested there, lips to Q’s brow, and wrapped his arm around the smaller man. “Everything’s going to work out.”

After a moment, he backtracked, settled against the bed, and asked, “Could Josh _see_ you?”

Quentin chuckled and rolled his eyes. “You know what? Maybe that was what was so disturbing for him to see; you just fucking the air.”

The idea seemed to give Quentin the giggles, like he was trying to picture that. The giggles were contagious. After a breath, Eliot broke down laughing too, snuggling into Quentin and trying not to snort in an undignified manner.

“Oh my god, Quentin, did we just traumatize Hoberman?” Eliot snickered and squirmed closer, trying to get as much of his body against Q’s side as possible from top to toes. “At least Margo got some sex out of it. She’s going to be _so_ much easier to live with now.”

At that, he fell quiet to listen. The unmistakable sound of those two crazy werewolves going at it drifted through the open door and windows. Eliot laughed again and hugged Q. “I think we should just stay right here for a while.”

“Yeah. I don’t really want to see Josh’s ass. He’s a nice guy and all, but…” Quentin laughed again and pressed his forehead to Eliot’s. “You know… while you were ruling Fillory… our family was out there. I think. I mean, right? They probably had no idea they were related to royalty.”

At that, Eliot’s mood turned. Dark King Eliot. It sounded fucking bad. Under his breath, he whispered, “Q… This Dark King Eliot shit…” He paused, took a deep breath, and continued softly, “This isn’t me. This isn’t something I’d do. I barely wanted to fuck thirteen-year-olds when I _was_ thirteen. And, I mean, a girl? Our descendant? That’s… It’s so divorced from the reality I inhabit I can’t imagine what timeline that Eliot could be from.”

He hesitated and then said, trying to sound light-hearted, “I mean, Jesus, Q, my crush on you ran so deep even a god was affected. The Monster was following you around like a puppy. What Eliot Waugh would ever do this? I mean, it _can’t_ be me, right?”

But deeper down, he wondered. What if this descendant of Q’s was the sole remnant that Eliot had left of Quentin? What if she resembled him? What if she was all he could get and his crush on Q had gone even deeper into obsession, into the dark places Eliot tried to pretend he didn’t have?

Quentin braced his hands on Eliot’s shoulders. “Me without my shade was the Beast. It’s… Well he wouldn’t be you, would he? Or inhabited in any way by you. So if he has your face, it’ll be a shame to have to end anything so sexy, but it’s nothing to do with you.”

He paused and looked away as he heard Margo shout out her release. Quentin started to get up, but Eliot kept him in place. “Oh, she’s just getting started. She wouldn’t have missed Hoberman so much if he just made her cum once each fuck.”

Quentin nodded and gave a grim smile, but Eliot could tell he was thinking about whether a version of Eliot would be capable of all this. He had, after all, married a woman because he felt like Fillory _required_ it. If he got it in his head that to rule Fillory he needed to marry a young girl, would he have?

It was impossible to wrap his head around, and Quentin didn’t look convinced.

 Q shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We’re going to kill that motherfucker for fucking with our family no matter what. Right?”

Chest tight with foreboding, Eliot nodded. “Right.”


	10. If You Could See Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> El & Q do recon on Whitespire. Margo & Josh have no shame. The Prince of the Mud may actually get full eventually.

After Margo’s fifth orgasm, Quentin rolled over and grabbed his pants. “Look, we’re in a time crunch here, and I’m sure once Margo knows that we’re trying to stop a wedding, she’ll be more than on board.”

Fillory had had more than its share of forced marriages, which Quentin was aware that Eliot was also more than familiar with.

Before Eliot could stop him, which he didn’t seem that inclined to do anyway, Quentin had on his shirt and was out the door, walking into a scene he hadn’t given much thought to.

Margo and Josh in what looked to be a very physically taxing position with an audience of animals that included the Prince of the Mud, four pegasi, and a crowd of rabbits who appeared to be taking notes.

Only Margo appeared to notice him, and she looked slightly annoyed but then shrugged her shoulder as if to admit that they were being excessive, and she told Josh he could cum.

Quentin turned his back, giving them a minute to finish up and sort themselves.

Eliot wasn’t far behind him, though he didn’t bother looking away as Josh literally howled his climax. Instead, he watched with one eyebrow raised and his hand curled at his throat in that way he had while deeply moved or entertained. Then, to Quentin’s mortification, Eliot applauded.

“Brava, Hoberman. That was a worthy performance.”

Josh only sounded a little embarrassed—and very winded—when he called back, “Thanks, Eliot!”

Like Eliot’s opinion of Hoberman’s fucking should even count. What was that?

Eliot slipped his arm around Quentin’s stomach and hugged him to him as he watched whatever Josh and Margo were doing, and Quentin noticed Eliot wasn’t favoring his wound or using his cane.

Quentin placed his hand under Eliot’s shirt and felt only the seal of a scratch, perhaps? If that. “Hey… did I…? Do I have the magic dick now?”

He looked up at Eliot, gleeful that maybe he had done something. “Minor mending?”

Eliot leaned over and whispered against Quentin’s temple, “Your dick was always magical, baby boy.”

Then he kissed him, laughed, and drew away, stalking toward where Margo and Josh were putting themselves to rights.

“All right, wolfpack, we’ve got some news. In typical fashion, most of it is bad.” Eliot tugged Quentin along, although Quentin wasn’t in a hurry to get closer to the scene of whatever crime against nature the other couple had been committing. “So we found out a few things, the worst of which is that me and Quentin’s son, Ted Coldwater-Waugh, had many children who truncated the name over the generations to ‘Coldwawa,’ so now we have to deal with that. Our sole remaining descendant bearing the name of Coldwawa has been kidnapped and held as a ward by the Dark King and is going to be forced to marry him on her thirteenth birthday, which is in three days. So, time to storm the castle.” El said it all as casually as he said everything, like it wasn’t the living nightmare it definitely was. “Also, the Dark King is named Eliot.”

Margo stared at Eliot for an uncomfortably long time. They seemed to be having an almost telepathic conversation through raised eyebrows, shrugs, and furrowed brows. A dark Eliot could be pretty dark, and they appeared to both know that, but _whether_ he’d be that kind of dark was inconclusive.

She pursed her lips and then said flatly. “I found Josh, no thanks to any of you, and got us four—” As she turned, the Prince of the Mud’s head darted out, and white legs dangled from its mouth. “ _Three_ flying horses. Someone will have to double up.

“How did recon go?”

Quentin was still stuck at the giant turtle eating a pegasus, but he tried to reel himself back in. “We didn’t get to that part. We went to the market and met up with the Napster. Learned about the child bride.”

“And came back looking for me. I get it.” Margo nodded while Josh looked around wildly as if trying to place Quentin’s voice. Margo took his chin and pointed it in the right direction, not that it helped. “Three days isn’t long. We need to get eyes on this dickwad.”

“Margo’s right. We don’t have long. Now that we’re all loved up and raring to go, let’s see what we can do.” Eliot turned toward Quentin and smiled a little. “By the way, Bambi, our little Q minorly mended my gut wound, so I’m feeling much better. I think I may be up to the strenuous effort no doubt required to overthrow a brutal, magic-suppressing, three-hundred-year dark regime.” He glanced back to Margo. “That’s something, right?”

As they stood side by side, Eliot reached out to squeeze Quentin’s ass and whispered, “You wanna ride double?”

“It’s a nice surprise that neither of you two are limping.” Margo leaned in slightly. “Though obviously not for lack of trying.”

Quentin decided to ignore that. “So we’ll just get an overhead view, but won’t they see us? What if they try to shoot? I’m still not visible; I could go.”

Eliot grimaced. “I don’t want you going by yourself. So many things could go wrong.” He slipped his hand in Quentin’s back pocket possessively and squeezed again, as if he could keep Quentin from going.

Josh stared at whatever Eliot’s hand was doing, looking somewhere between fascinated and revolted.

Looking right at Josh, Eliot snipped, “Like you wouldn’t constantly molest ghost Margo if that was all you had of her. Never thought you’d be a judgmental one, Hoberman.”

Blushing, Josh held up both hands entreating peace. “Sorry. It’s just…” He shook his head. “This is extra-weird, even for us, guys.”

After a moment, Eliot inclined his head. “Acknowledged.”

“I’m not really a ghost, though. And apparently not up for reaping. I’m just… I don’t know what I am. But in this way I could be useful, right? They can’t kill what’s already dead. Or not dead. Or that they can’t see. Most of them. Probably. I don’t know. But I do know we need to know what we’re going to be up against, right?”

Margo watched them both, pensive.

“We could try a cloaking spell for Eliot. Josh and I can fly around. Someone knows something is up. Prince here ate several scouts along the way.” She turned and eyed him, “Which is why he shouldn’t be so fucking hungry that he’s gotta eat my flying horses and if he does it again, Crocella won’t be making a visit tonight.”

The Prince of the Mud hung his head. “Sorry. Habit.”

Josh looked at her. “Crocella?”

Quentin groaned. “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll wish you didn’t ask.”

Eliot laughed. “I find Crocella rather delightful, personally, but Quentin has a weak stomach.” Nudging Quentin, Eliot looked to Margo. “Cloaking spell for me, you and Josh doing aerial support, Q leading the way in his newly ninja-esque capacity. Sounds like a plan.”

Then, with an expression of pained realization, Eliot asked, “Josh, where’s Fen?”

Josh paled. “Um. Well. You see…”

“Where’s my wife?” Eliot asked, his tone harder.

“We parted ways after we escaped Whitespire. She was determined to find you.”

Eliot closed his eyes and took a harsh breath. “Of course she was.”

Quentin awkwardly put his hand on Eliot’s back. A magician could pop back up, but what was the likelihood of a Fillorian? Then he thought of Julia, and home. Well, Earth anyway. No one here would know much more than he did probably, so he let it go.

“I want to see her too, El. I don’t let just anyone depose me. She’s special. If Fen is findable, we’ll find her. We need to focus. Three days,” Margo said, snapping her fingers.

“All right, so, Castle Whitespire. I’d say we could fly to Brighthaven and I could walk from there, but apparently it’s been taken over by giant ants?” Quentin looked around but wound up locking eyes with the Prince of the Mud.

“On it.” He turned and started to hustle in that direction, much faster than Quentin would’ve believed a snapping turtle could move. But then, he was very big.

“Do turtles eat ants?” Quentin watched the Prince go.

“I guess he’s gonna find out.” Margo sighed; she looked a little fond.

“That doesn’t even really help.”

She held up her hand. “It’ll keep him busy and off my shoe.”

Josh eyed her, but no one clarified.

“So what if we try a sea approach? We can come in from the Twin Harbors-ish, you guys start from the Silver Banks. We’ll share a horse, you guys each get your own, rendezvous back here where the wards are by sunup?” It wasn’t the best plan Quentin had ever come up with, but it wasn’t the worst. He turned to Eliot. “I assume your dubious party boy past has left you with a variety of cloaking spells?”

“I’m…not the best at cloaking.” Eliot gave Quentin a rueful look. “However, I am very good at misdirection spells. I could alter a misdirection spell to _work_ as a cloaking spell…” Then, brightening, he looked to Margo and asked, “Do you remember when we were seeing Alonso, the Illusions kid? What was that spell he cast to prevent his _long_ string of former hookups bothering him? It made Alonso invisible, but not really?”

Before Margo could say anything, Eliot blurted, “An Illusion trap. Do you remember? It was genius. Targeted to the beholder’s emotions. If someone was looking for him with a negative intent, they’d be hit with an overwhelming urge to be anywhere else but where he was. I could try that. He taught me how to do it. Well, sort of. I mean, I’ve never actually done it, but I know _how_ to do it.”

Looking back to Quentin apologetically, he said, “It’ll work much better than a cloaking spell up close anyway. Magical camouflage doesn’t often hold up to scrutiny, but this works as a repellant. It could actually divert problem people from your vicinity while still allowing us to interact with people who might be useful.”

Josh laughed. “Oh my god, Alonso. I remember him. He owes me money.” Then Josh sobered. “So that’s why I never saw him again. Huh.”

“All right. And if it gets to be too draining between us, we’ll just…” Quentin motioned to indicate sex. “Which seems to fix everything, and if it’s not working, I can head in alone if I have to.”

Margo eyed them with her right eye and then turned back. “You’ve still got remnants of locator spell on you. If you do split up, you should be able to keep track of him. If it all goes to shit, send up a flare.”

“Sounds like a fine, not at all hastily thrown-together plan,” Eliot declared, possibly with more than a hint of irony. “I’m ready. Are you ready?”

Hoberman clapped his hands together in front of his chest and nodded once. “Ready.”

“Any news on the Cozy Horse?” Quentin asked as one of the pegasi headed toward them.

“Last anyone saw, he was chillin’ by the Ochre Sea. Think it might be harder to be subtle on the back of a 100-foot horse, though, don’t you?” Margo’s pegasus stood by her, and she easily hopped on, as if she was born to it.

It wasn’t until that moment that it occurred to Quentin that it had been a long time since he rode a horse of any variety. He looked to Eliot, who was currently casting his illusions charm. Sparkles and light swirled around him as he moved his fingers and arms through a complex ritual and chanted in what sounded like Etruscan.

Then he was done. Whether it worked or not was anyone’s guess. If the Prince of the Mud had still been there wanting to eat him, maybe they could’ve tested its efficacy. Too late now.

As Josh mounted up, slightly less gracefully than Margo had, Eliot looked to the remaining pegasus and beckoned him over with a crooked finger. “Hello, gorgeous. What’s your name?”

The winged stallion stamped his hoof and then, to Quentin’s surprise, pranced up to Eliot and introduced himself. “I am Fizzlesnip the Majestic. You were once High King Eliot.” Fizzlesnip looked toward Quentin then, tossing his head and making his long mane flutter. “And you were King Quentin the Moderately Socially Maladjusted.”

“Oh. I guess talking animals can see me also?” It didn’t seem like the Prince of the Mud had been able to. He really needed to see to changing his title someday. Would that be revisionist history or correcting the record?

“Not at all,” Fizzlesnip replied, sounding more than a little amused. “You reek of mating. I can _smell_ you.” Tossing his head again, Fizzlesnip looked between Quentin and Eliot and said, “You’re all over each other.”

Eliot coughed into his hand, a genteel gesture, when it was obvious he wanted to laugh. “Yes, we are often all over each other, Fizzlesnip. We should change Quentin’s honorific to ‘King Quentin the Well-Fucked’.”

Fizzlesnip threw back his head and bared his teeth in what looked like a horsey laugh. “King Quentin the Well-Fucked,” he repeated, sounding smug. Then he turned his side to them and folded his wings out of the way.

With as much authority as Margo, Eliot swung himself into the saddle and settled in neatly. He’d clearly done this before, possibly many times. Then again, Quentin knew from their fifty years together that Eliot had been a farm boy once. It figured.

Quentin ducked his head, shaking it with exasperation. “I guess that’s an improvement. Not so maladjusted I can’t get laid, I guess. So um…”

Eliot offered his hand and helped Quentin onto Fizzlesnip’s back. He wrapped his arms around Eliot’s waist as Fizzlesnip made for the largest part of the clearing, took a few galloping steps, and went airborne.

Clearly, he’d heard the plan, as he took them toward the shimmering coastline. Quentin looked down at the dizzying sight of Fillory below him. It was so much more real than the pen-and-ink sketches in the books, and much lusher and more beautiful than anyone had rendered it in 3D.

The breeze was a perfect blend of cool while the sun warmed his skin.

His skin?

Quentin wasn’t even sure anymore how he existed, but he was too elated at flying to care. _Flying_ with Eliot. It was one of those perfect moments where Fillory really was what he’d hoped it would be when he was a kid.

Fizzlesnip’s wings beat at the air, holding them aloft, and Eliot whooped his excitement into the rushing wind. His curls blew back toward Quentin’s face, and then he turned to grin at Quentin. Eliot reached back with one arm and drew Quentin’s head forward, twisting just to kiss him again as they soared over Fillory.

“I can’t believe we never did this before,” Quentin shouted. He gazed at the white, fluttering feathers. Fizzlesnip flicked his tail, and it swept over Quentin’s back. They’d gone immediately into ruling, into the politics of running the country, not to mention cleaning up messes on Earth. He’d never had this kind of simple joy. “I can’t believe I’m riding on the back of a flying horse who made fun of me. That’s really amazing!”

Fizzlesnip let out another horsey laugh and turned his head back, though he couldn’t see Quentin, not really, then he headed them down toward the coast. He seemed to be showboating a little, taking them over Brighthaven where they saw the Prince of the Mud happily snapping up the large ants running around in confusion.

Also, they saw Fillorians cheering, hanging from balconies of the small city’s buildings, the architecture strangely like pre-industrial London.

With another shift, they were out over water, silvery blue and cool, boats coming back to port after a day’s worth of fishing or importing items by sea. All those lives affected by what they did, all those Fillorians who could well be related to him. He’d never felt more part of the world.

Fizzlesnip took them down near a sea cave that Quentin vaguely remembered. “This is as far as I can safely take you.”

The pegasus extended his wing to the left and Eliot helped Quentin brace himself to dismount. He found his footing more easily than he expected, thanks in great part to Fizzlesnip moving just so to aid him and prevent his stumbling. Then Eliot swept off with a regal air that suggested his wound really had healed.

Quentin had done that. Magic dick for the win.

Then Eliot bowed to Fizzlesnip, and the pegasus returned the gesture.

“Thank you, Fizzlesnip. You are, indeed, majestic. Will you wait for us here, or are we on our own?”

Fizzlesnip seemed to consider. “For you, I will wait.”

Smiling, Eliot stepped forward to press his forehead to Fizzlesnip’s and whispered just loud enough for Quentin to hear, “Gorgeous _and_ loyal. Sounds like someone I know.”

Then Eliot stepped away and winked at Quentin. “Shall we?”

“Can I just…” Quentin walked up to Fizzlesnip, holding out his hand so he could smell where Quentin was, and waited for the horse to nuzzle him. He petted Fizzlesnip’s nose, surprised with how much joy it gave him. Like soft velvety felt. “Thanks, Fizzlesnip.”

When he turned back to Eliot, he fully anticipated being mocked for his dorky admiration. Which maybe he deserved. He did need to get his head in the game.

But by the same token, before he’d died, he might not have taken the moment to fully appreciate a flying horse, too focused on the task ahead. Even before that, though, hadn’t solving the beauty of all life given him some appreciation? He’d been so used to hitting goals, doing tasks, quests, he often forgot how miraculous it all was.

“Anyway, we should head this way.”

Eliot caught Quentin by the sash and dragged him in to kiss him slowly, one hand carding into Quentin’s hair and cupping the back of his head. Kissing Eliot was always so different from kissing anyone else, so tall and lanky, with the scrape of his short beard and the taste of the whisky he so often drank. He kissed Quentin until his toes curled, until Quentin was gasping and clutching at Eliot.

Then he stepped away and swatted Quentin’s ass. “All right. Lead on, Coldwater.”

“Let’s do good hiding.” Quentin’s cheeks felt hot. He’d been caught off-guard by the kiss, but he was pleased anyway. “I hope not everyone can smell us.”

He exited the cave, being careful. He probably could just walk right up to people and not be seen, but there could be other indicators, including noise. He hung back when he saw scouts heading out, and then a small troop riding the road to Brighthaven, probably to check out the giant snapping turtle.

He honestly wasn’t sure who to root for there, so he decided not to think too hard about it as he crept toward the castle.

The tree line was safest. Beach would show footprints, not that anyone passing them seemed to concern themselves with much other than where they themselves were headed.

There were fewer defending the castle than Quentin would’ve imagined; it fed his conviction it had to be a magician inside. Only two guards stood at the front gate of Castle Whitespire. As ever, the heads of Ember and Umber faced off on the worn wooden doors.

Quentin paused, considering what magic he might be able to use to knock out the guards. Or perhaps Eliot could offer them a beverage? Or El could knock them out.

The guards seemed to be on high alert, eyes wide and bulging, maybe worried giant ants might attack the castle as night began to fall. Instead of doing anything flashy, Quentin concentrated on the forest’s edge they’d emerged from, shaking one of the bigger trees in a manner suggestive of a large insect.

With a shriek, the guards abandoned their posts, throwing open the doors to let themselves in, leaving them open in their rush to safety. Quentin put his arm around Eliot as they strolled inside.

“Honestly,” Eliot observed sotto voce, “these people.”

No one paid them any attention as they moved through the courtyard. Whatever spell Eliot had worked appeared to be fully functional. Neither of them had expended significant magical energy yet, and Quentin was still feeling pretty solid, pretty good. Eliot wasn’t limping either, even without his cane.

They totally had this.

From a balcony above, someone started screeching. It sounded disconcertingly familiar.

Eliot looked to Quentin, brow furrowed, and then blanched. “Oh shit.”

Quentin looked up and saw a tall, lanky man with dark hair, dressed in royal finery. But there was something off about him. And not off in the way that the Monster had been off.

Somehow not… tall enough? Not elegant enough?

Like Eliot Waugh cosplay, if there was such a thing.

Quentin looked to Eliot, who appeared to have already put it together.

They both said, “Todd.”


	11. A Matter of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet looks a lot like Q. Q and El realize there may be more than just a Todd to overthrow.

Eliot could not fucking believe this shit. “King Eliot my ass,” he hissed, looking at Quentin in open dismay. “I mean, sure his name is Eliot too, but I _told_ him it was Todd now.”

Quentin looked about to ask questions, so Eliot held up his hand to forestall them. “Now is not the time, my darling. We have a Todd to overthrow.”

Together they slipped through the castle’s once-familiar hallways, finding them much changed. Now they looked like some kind of Hot Topic commercialized Victorian goth nightmare. It was, Eliot reflected, not quite what he’d expected of Todd while simultaneously being the most Todd thing he’d ever seen.

When they reached the room off the balcony, moving as silently as they could, Eliot hung back in shock and stared from Q to the preteen girl sitting curled up on a chaise lounge ignoring Todd’s anguished shouts. She looked unmistakably like baby Q in drag, which was to say she was a beautiful young girl with shoulder-length sandy brown hair, soulful brown eyes, and lips that suggested she never smiled. Even her eyebrows were Quentin’s.

That had to be Janet-Margo Coldwawa, their great-great-great-great-great-great-great…uh…great granddaughter.

Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand and squeezed it to stay quiet as Todd berated the fleeing guards. He continued yelling ineffectually, as far as Eliot could tell, until the front gate was once again barred and a guard posted.

“I knew I shouldn’t have listened to him!” Todd ranted, running his hands through his suspiciously Waugh-esque hair. “I should’ve just given the FU Fighters Brighthaven. No one cared about that stupid little town until the army ants took over. The Fillorian separatists’ plots were contained there, starving out. War of attrition, even. Now it’s just a mess.”

Janet-Margo Coldwawa glanced at him in a supremely Q-like manner, made an inarticulate noise that suggested she wanted no part of this meltdown, and excluded herself from the narrative by returning to the book she was reading.

Backing away slowly despite every instinct demanding Eliot charge in, he tugged on Q’s hand and backed him away. The posted guards had vanished while they stood there, testament to Eliot’s brilliant avoidance spell. They wanted to be anywhere he wasn’t.

Sooner or later, though, Todd would notice his guards had gone elsewhere, and then he just might think to do a revelation spell that could show Eliot and Quentin both. Better not to test what tricks he had up his sleeve just yet.

Instead, once he’d seen enough to believe Todd wasn’t remotely interested in abusing their great granddaughter, Eliot hustled Q to the end of the hallway and down a flight of stairs to a small, dark closet he remembered having once held crockery or some such business. Closing the door softly behind them, Eliot widened his eyes in the dimness.

“What the what?”

“It sounds like they’re his giant ants.” Quentin seemed to be processing everything in a very Quentin-like manner. He seemed a little dazed. “I remember being that age, my parents fighting and just… just losing myself in a book. She’s definitely a Coldwawa.”

He made a face after saying that, as if it was the first time he realized how terrible that truncation was. “Josh spent three-hundred years hiding from Todd? And Todd is an Eliot? But he just seems so… Todd.”

“Listen, Q, when I first met Todd… He introduced himself as Eliot. I am the only Eliot of the Physical Kids. His middle name was Todd. So I told him that was his new name. He’s been coming for my brand ever since the beginning.” Eliot low-key fumed, pacing in the tiny space. Then he looked at Quentin. “Did you see what he was wearing? Either the same outfit I wore to broker peace with Loria, or an exact replica!”

“Had to be a replica. Your ass is much nicer.” Ah, at least Quentin said the right things sometimes now, though Todd did have a pretty nice ass, Eliot had to admit. Quentin probably hadn’t even looked, bless him. “You think that’s why he wants our great great great… Janet? I guess she was Margo. I don’t know. I don’t… I mean, he seemed like a fine student, but not who I’d expect to have seized Fillory. And kept it for this long.”

“No, there’s something else going on. If Todd couldn’t control giant army ants, how did he take Whitespire? And Josh would’ve recognized him if he’d seen him. He would’ve _warned_ us.” Eliot frowned and reached for Q’s hand. “We should keep exploring, see what else we can find. Something’s not right here.”

“There is a _lot_ not right here.” Quentin looked uneasy and much like he wanted to make sure Janet was all right. At least Todd didn’t appear to be acting inappropriately at her. He didn’t even seem to pay particular attention to her. She hadn’t looked scared, which was a plus. “He was talking about someone he shouldn’t have listened to. A _he_. Maybe we should check the cells? It’s possible he caught a more talented magician and is forcing _him_ to keep Fillory running?”

Eliot nodded. “Good thinking, Q.”

Taking the lead, Eliot listened at the door to make sure no one was coming down the hallway and then eased the knob open and stepped out. He exhaled heavily, trying to clear his head, and then started toward the next flight down toward the cells.

What they found…

“Ugh.” Eliot covered his mouth with his hand as he surveyed the site. The gore covering the cell walls and bars was old now, brown and crusty, but there’d been a bloodbath here some time ago. Plucking a handkerchief from his purple tunic, Eliot breathed through it against the lingering abattoir stench.

Picking his way through the mess, Eliot caught sight of an enchanted cell at the back, reinforced with all kinds of wards. A single torch flickered outside, casting red light and shadows into the little cube.

Guts clenching, Eliot approached, torn between dropping his handkerchief so he’d be ready to cast and keeping it right where he was so he wouldn’t vom. Then he dropped it anyway, shocked and confused by what he saw.

“Stoppard?”

The slight young Asian man looked worse for wear, pale and drawn, but he was unmistakably the same prodigy who’d lectured Eliot’s horomancy elective, talking about his mother Sonia’s work.

“Who are you?” Stoppard’s voice creaked like he didn’t use it often, but he rose to his feet and approached the cell bars, staring through them.

“Eliot Waugh. Formerly of Brakebills. Formerly High King of Fillory.” Eliot surveyed the situation, keeping his voice soft, and then asked, “How long have you been here?”

Stoppard’s humorless laugh spoke volumes. “Three centuries, give or take, but I’ve been manipulating time, so it’s a little more complicated than that.”

It would explain so much about the chronological discrepancy between Earth 40 and Fillory if Stoppard had been interfering with the Fillorian timeline.

“I—” Eliot turned toward Quentin and motioned him forward. As he did, Stoppard inhaled sharply.

“Holy shit. You’ve got a fuckload of time magic on you. Lose the Invisibility Cloak, Potter. Let me take a look.”

“Time magic?” Quentin stepped forward to the cage, apparently seeing boundaries more clearly than Eliot did. “I don’t have an invisibility cloak. This is just me. I’m not um… Well, we’re not sure. But time? I don’t do time magic. I mean, other than the Time Key in the Mosaic but… Hey, am I a Time Lord?”

Quentin looked at Eliot and then at Stoppard, then down at himself. He didn’t appear bothered by the smell. His affectations of breathing were probably more habit than necessary. Lucky him.

“So you’re a shade? But you’re…not a shade. Not a ghost. Not a Time Lord either; they’re completely different. And fictional. No.” Stoppard appeared consumed with his examination. “You used the Time Key from Fillory’s Mosaic? Was it used _on_ you? How many times?”

He rubbed his temples and then groaned. “Oh, my god. How did I not realize?”

“Realize what?” Eliot prompted when the silence dragged on past half a second. “What did you realize just now that you did not immediately realize and are disappointed in yourself for not immediately realizing?”

“Jane Chatwin. She was using her pocket watch to create time loops. There were forty. I’m from 40. You’re…” Stoppard rubbed his temples harder, apparently fighting a massive headache. “You’re not… You’re so ensconced in time magic, I can’t tell what timeline you’re from. The fact you exist suggests 40, but this is not timeline 40’s signature all over you.”

“But we _are_ from 40,” Eliot said, looking from Stoppard to Q. “Why would he not—”

“He’s not a corporeal being; he’s a temporal being,” Stoppard interrupted, shutting Eliot right up.

“Temporal being, Time Lord… I don’t see why we couldn’t just call me a Time Lord.” Quentin frowned as he looked at his hands as if considering. “I guess, what does that mean? I’m only here for so long? Or I’m made of time? I don’t think my magic’s changed. What little I can do is still minor mending.”

“You’re not…you’re not fully manifested, but you’re definitely made of time. Or well… There’s some chronomancy going on. It’s complex. I’ve never—This is god-level.” Stoppard tried to do a revealing spell, but of course the enchanted cell stopped him, and from the looks of things gave him a nasty shock. He staggered back and then shook it off, approaching once more.

“Are you, uh… That looked…” Eliot trailed off, gesturing to Stoppard’s smoking hands.

“Still forget sometimes. It’s hard not to—It’s just instinctive, you know?” Stoppard inhaled deeply and then focused again on Quentin’s form, however it appeared to him. “You need a physical manifestation to channel and control magic because you’re… Well, you _were_ a human magician, anyway. It’s the only way you know how to cast.”

“What do you mean he _was_ human?” Eliot asked. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Stoppard shrugged, apparently declining to clarify.

“God-level?” Surprisingly, Quentin didn’t look particularly pleased to hear that.

But he’d been so close to Julia, his perspective on gods was probably different. The way he looked at Eliot and took his hand made clear he was worried what that development might mean.

And, Eliot considered, he’d had a god in his body, and, well, that hadn’t been pleasant.

Quentin sighed. “So again, I need a body, but no one’s got any great tips and tricks on how to get one. Can I use this magic to…get you out of here?”

“I don’t think so.” Stoppard furrowed his brow and pushed back his messy black hair. “Not yet anyway. Come back when you’ve physically manifested, and it’ll be a snap, though. You’re teeming with power.”

He glanced to Eliot then and looked between the two. “I’m guessing there was a lot of sex magic involved too. Not my area of specialty, but you seem…”

“Well-fucked?” Eliot suggested with a smirk. “I wouldn’t call it my area of specialty, but it _is_ a hobby.”

Stoppard rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. “Sure. You should get out of here before they notice you’re down here. You’re useless to me right now.”

“You’re really going to make King Quentin the Well-Fucked happen, aren’t you?” Quentin shook his head, but he was smiling. He opened his mouth, probably to ask what the fuck happened down here, but they heard a noise from the corridor.

They headed out the other way, moving deeper into the dungeons.

And deeper.

There were no other prisoners, which seemed odd given the general authoritarian bent of Fillory’s current management, but there also seemed to be a lot more…prison to this prison than Eliot recalled. He frowned as they explored down a raw stone corridor he couldn’t remember ever having seen during his long tenure as a resident of Whitespire, and he’d thought he knew the whole place.

“Q, this is—This wasn’t here before.”

Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand and held onto it, slowing them to a cautious pace as they navigated the dark hall. Magical residue clung to the walls, invisible but palpable, a scent as much as anything. This wasn’t the charnel house, nostril-singeing stench of the upper dungeons but something between that and ozone. Like a lightning-struck opossum’s first day of rot.

And that was a memory Eliot really didn’t need. _Thanks, Indiana_.

Quentin moved closer to the wall and put his hand on it.

“This is… I think this is Living Stone, El. Feel it. Maybe it’s…” He stopped and held out his hands together, right over left, then turned his wrists so left was over right. “Remember Calypso said Ember and Umber just flipped Blackspire and built Whitespire on top?”

Quentin paced, indicating he was thinking. “So theoretically, Blackspire is _under_ Whitespire. We went to the end of the world on the Muntjac because we went the long way around to go in through the back. Drilling down…”

“Shit.” Eliot stroked the wall thoughtfully, biting his lip. “Who would tunnel into Living Stone? Todd? Really?”

He frowned as he edged down the corridor toward a faint luminescence ahead. “Q,” he whispered, “go do some recon. I’ll be right behind you.”

Quentin traced along the wall, almost caressing it, as if it felt good to him. Perhaps he was feeding on that magic, as well. Eliot didn’t want to think too deeply on what Q being super-powered might mean. He didn’t seem terribly eager to discuss it either, which was either very scary or a big relief. Eliot cycled between the two unless he was paying absolute attention to the moment, so that is what he did.

“If Todd knows that the fountain is down here, maybe he’s tired of being a discount Eliot Waugh and wants to go for a Martin Chatwin?” Quentin looked back briefly, apparently not seeing the faintly glowing wall in front of him.

Eliot watched first with amusement as Quentin turned back, expecting he was going to bounce off the wall in the way that, when Q was thinking too hard, he often did. But instead of hitting the wall, Quentin appeared to trip over something and disappeared right through it.

“Q!” Eliot ran to the end of the tunnel and pushed at it, pounding it with his fists and kicking it when that didn’t avail him anything. Shouting was probably a bad idea; his voice echoed down the corridor with diminishing returns, an eerie chorus of _Q Q Q q q q…._

Panic surged in his chest, stopping his heart, choking him. “Oh god, Q,” he whispered, feeling his way along the solid wall of Living Stone, trying to find whatever passage had let Q pass through.

After what felt like hours, though probably only a few seconds, Quentin reappeared through the wall, again lacking all coordination, which sent him barreling into Eliot, knocking them both to the floor.

Quentin put his finger over his lips to hush Eliot, and when it appeared that wasn’t going to work, pressed his lips to Eliot’s. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Clutching Quentin to him, Eliot kissed him hard and tried to calm down, but he’d just been left alone in the deep, eldritch darkness below the dungeons of Whitespire, and Q had _disappeared_ , and none of that was okay. More than a little needy and uncool, he whispered, “Don’t leave me like that again. Promise.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

_You never mean to. You just do._

Quentin looked down at him, bracing with one hand, the other caressing his cheek. “I just fell through… It’s Blackspire. It’s um… very thin there, I guess. For me. I was… This was all upside down.”

Eliot breathed deeply and considered that. “The fountain? Is it still—Is the Siphon intact? Does the Library still have control?”

And by the Library, he meant Alice. If Alice’s control over magic was threatened, maybe they could call her in for backup.

“No Siphon. Don’t think Alice would let that stand. She had a real change of heart since we were last in there. Though that does mean that Todd could Todd up all of magic. He’s not far from breaking through.” Quentin frowned as he sat up, still straddling Eliot. “Sorry I knocked you over. How’s your head?”

With a smug little grin, Eliot gripped Quentin’s hips and arched upward against him. “Seems like you’d know better than anyone.”

Something was seriously wrong with him to be flirting in a place like this, at a time like this, but the terror of losing Quentin for even a moment… Well. Eliot needed the levity. He’d never been terribly good at sober, somber, or serious.

Quentin grinned and gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “I’ll take it that I didn’t damage anything that needs mending. We should probably get back, regroup with the others. I’m not sure how this connects with the wedding, but I don’t have a great feeling about it.”

He sat back and got up, then held out his hand to help Eliot stand. With a faint grunt, Eliot lurched to his feet gripping Q’s hand and then slung his arm around Quentin’s shoulders, craving creature comforts here in this abysmal place.

“Okay. I’ll feel better once we’re back under the open sky.” Eliot turned his face into Quentin’s hair and breathed in, trying to clear his senses of this place’s unnatural reek. Q just smelled like Q, familiar and perfect, a little spicy, a little musky. Eliot’s favorite scent.

As they proceeded up the corridor toward its lighter end where it reconnected with the dungeon, a shadow moved against the dim glow beyond. Eliot froze and pulled Quentin back against the wall, heart pounding. Quentin edged forward a little, passing Eliot, who wasn’t sure the status of his Illusion trap. Between Stoppard, Living Stone, and Eliot’s minor freak-out, he didn’t want to depend too heavily on it.

Especially if Todd was lurking.

Quentin turned toward Eliot and put his finger over his lips again, as if Eliot would choose now to start a chorus. Then he advanced, careful to keep checking in, apparently mindful of Eliot’s mood.

Or maybe he was also afraid of leaving Eliot behind again.

They found a shallow alcove, a snug fit for the both of them, though Quentin probably didn’t need it. He took Eliot’s hand, stretching out to peer at whomever was humming to himself and heading their way.

The sound was deeper, more resonant than Todd’s voice. He sounded relaxed, confident, not hurried or panicky like a guard would be. He didn’t even sound like he was looking for anyone in particular. And why would he be?

Besides Stoppard, no one knew they were there.

Quentin made it to the edge of the corridor and froze, squeezing Eliot’s hand tightly. When he returned to the alcove, all the blood had drained from his face. Which it couldn’t actually have done, since he didn’t technically have blood, but then, he’d been blushing and all sorts of—

It didn’t matter. Quentin looked horrified as he stared up into Eliot’s eyes. Horrified and hurt.

“It’s… It’s Plover.”

Eliot mouthed _fuck_ and exhaled shakily. Just what they needed. No big shock that in a future Fillory where there was a child bride, there was an immortal pedophile behind it. Plover must be the _he_ Todd wished he hadn’t listened to. It was hard to imagine anyone being glad they’d listened to that sick sack of shit.

He nodded to Q and they moved toward the exit—and Plover—at a glacial pace. If El’s Illusion trap was still working, Plover would no doubt be overcome with the desire to avoid the shit out of him and go the opposite direction. If it wasn’t working…

Fuck.

Q took the lead, and Eliot followed, heart in his throat, clutching Q’s hand like that would do anything. But maybe it would give Q strength. Maybe, using Eliot as his physical conduit, he could use some of that timey wimey shit Stoppard swore he was hepped up on.

As they approached, Plover kept humming, some old 1940s tune, and—to Eliot’s dread—headed right toward them.

Change of plans.

Eliot pulled at Q’s hand and retreated further back down the passage, taking care not to silhouette himself against the bioluminescence at the end of the corridor. He kept his back pressed to the uneven Living Stone wall and edged away from Plover’s slow, apparently joyous advance.

They couldn’t even talk without Plover probably hearing them, and maybe Plover hadn’t been a magician in their time, but who knew what he’d become in the last three centuries? Eliot didn’t believe in that kind of redemption.

Quentin led them back to the wall. It was literally the end of the road, nowhere else to go. He turned Eliot around, guiding him just so. The wall was solid and cold against his back. If Eliot couldn’t focus to do a re-up of his Illusion trap right now, he certainly couldn’t do the battle magic necessary to fight their way out. And who knew what might be following Plover?

Looking up at Eliot, Quentin pressed his lips together. That determined look overtook his face, as always when he was about to try something. It reminded Eliot of the first time Quentin initiated a kiss, on the one-year Mosaic anniversary.

As it turned out, it _was_ the same look. Quentin rolled up onto his toes and grabbed Eliot by the back of the neck. Instead of the sweet, boyish peck he’d given Eliot then, he kissed him deeply, overwhelming Eliot with a crazy rush of warmth and love. Then he had the terrifying sensation of falling, as if he’d been pushed off a cliff’s sheer drop.

The sudden shift broke the kiss as Eliot fell _up_ and then landed on…

The floor?

Quentin stood in front of him, but just barely. He wobbled, shaking his head as if trying to get oriented.

“What the—” Eliot splayed his hands to either side of him, grabbing hold of the stone floor like that would somehow help. He planted his feet against it as well, trying to wrap his head around the weird inversion of gravity.

Slowly he acclimated, and then he rose onto all fours, blinking and squinting until his equilibrium sorted itself. “Mind fuck.”

He looked toward the wall they’d come through, but it was solid. Quentin was staring like he could see right through it, though, and Eliot heaved himself to his feet and edged closer before doing the simplest reveal he knew. Holding up his fingers in a rectangle and chanting quietly, he managed to peer through the Living Stone barrier into Whitespire, where an upside-down Plover walked along the apparent ceiling toward them, though he gave no indication he could see them.

“Q,” Eliot whispered, glancing sideways at his boyfriend. “What the shit is going on?”

As Plover neared, the luminescence of the wall on his side illuminated his face. He carried a golden basin carved with sigils Eliot vaguely recognized as Fillorian, and the liquid inside gleamed black in the faint light. Then he began painting symbols onto the wall with what looked like a gilded finger bone.

Somewhere behind them, blue light flickered and streamed, and when Eliot turned his head, he saw the Fountain flowing freely. Martin Chatwin had had the Wellspring to fuel his dreams of godhood, but the Old Gods had taken that from Fillory. Now, here, after three hundred years, Christopher Plover was on the verge of reaching the Fountain and its magic. It wasn’t Todd who wanted to emulate Martin’s ambitious and terrifying ascent; it was the man who’d made the boy into the Beast.


	12. Never Meet Your Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is pretty messed up. Q gets a blowjob.

While Quentin had had plenty of time to process what had happened to Martin Chatwin… what Plover had _done_ to Martin Chatwin, Quentin would find himself with vestigial affection for the man whose stories had meant so much to him and Julia. All he could think when he saw him was _why_?

He told these stories, magical and, as it turned out, true stories. He had the Chatwins, lovely children who trusted him so much. He was successful. _Why_ had he betrayed them and everyone who had loved the stories that way?

It made Quentin’s love of Fillory and the stories so complicated because he was at once nostalgic and repulsed.

Even hearing that Alice had killed Plover, when she thought she had, had left him with feelings of relief and sadness. Plover was a crushing reminder that the world was even darker and more depraved than Quentin had feared.

And now, he was perhaps inches away from becoming a new Beast.

Quentin was glad he didn’t have to articulate that to Eliot. He’d seemed to answer it for himself and stood by Quentin as they watched him painting sigils.

“We saw he had magic books. I guess he’s kind of a hedge witch. But he wouldn’t have the power to have… plowed through all of this by himself. Not Living Stone. I’m not even sure why I can go through it other than… I guess the plan was I was going to stay here at one point.” Quentin thought again about the Time Key, the god-like powers.

The kiss had been instinct. Not quite sex magic, but not _not_ sex magic and, well, he was panicked.

“So how did he end up working with _Todd_ of all people? Todd’s never struck me as a—” Eliot halted in his tracks and shook his head. “He _has_ struck me as a deviant, but not in that way! I mean, the Margolem thing… But that’s… Ugh.”

Eliot brooded for a moment and then murmured, “Well, we knew Plover was a master manipulator. And Todd… He’s very easily manipulated. You saw he was wearing my clothes and going by my name. This is a bad case of two wannabes attempting to transcend their essential inadequacy. Together. And bringing our granddaughter into it.”

“I thought he said he just had the Margolem to approve of him.” Quentin frowned and realized that was very generous of him to have believed. “Janet does look a lot like me, if he’s really coming for your brand… but thirteen? And he didn’t seem overly solicitous. She didn’t seem afraid of him.”

Quentin paused. “You were around that age when you manifested your magical abilities, weren’t you? Could it be…something to do with that?”

“What, some kind of magical coming of age? I don’t know. Maybe.” Eliot frowned. “You think Plover’s using Todd to present some kind of…more palatable face to the kingdom—and Janet—until he achieves his goal of going full Beast? I mean… Todd’s already marketing himself as the Dark King. I don’t know how Todd ended up with a moniker like that, but… I mean, honestly, we go from Margo the Destroyer to Todd the Dark? Downgrade. So generic.”

Eliot seemed to realize he’d lost the plot and refocused, his expression a blend of wry and grim. “So what… the… Oh.” Eliot’s jaw dropped, and he considered for a moment. His eyes went wide and he reached into his purple tunic for his never-ending flask. “Q… Q… What if that’s the blood of our descendants? They’ve been purging magicians… What if…the same magic that lets you pass through the barrier is in the bloodline? What if he’s using _that_ to erode the barrier between Whitespire and Blackspire?”

“That would… make sense.” Quentin looked at the stone again. “Permeable to me because it’s my family blood. That’s um… grim.”

He thought of all the blood on the walls as they walked in, thought of the Coldwawa line being murdered. Probably magical creatures, too. All that death to create a new Beast.

“Does seem kind of…extreme for Todd.” Quentin turned and looked at the fountain and then at Eliot. “You could replenish, we can slip out past Plover… maybe go up and see if we can get Todd alone? It’s kind of hard for me to believe he’d be… he can’t really know about this, can he?”

“Maybe I could talk some sense into him?” Eliot sipped from his flask and rolled his shoulders like he was getting ready for a fight. “Okay. I’m gonna have a little swig of pure Fountain-y goodness to juice, renew Alonso’s Illusion Trap, and step to Todd. It’s not pure recon, but… We could maybe get a man on the inside. That’s worth the risk. And honestly, even though he’s a little dweeb who tried to steal my crown as both King of the Party and King of Fillory, I don’t want him dead.”

“Good, because I don’t intend for us to kill him. Unless he touches our great great great great granddaughter.” Quentin went to the Fountain and put his hand in, but it seemed to go right through him. It was all right, though. As Eliot drank, Quentin also brightened. Probably not enough to give him a body, but… “Can you grab some of this just in case we need it later?”

“Um. Sure.” Eliot, freshly bolstered with Fountain drink, performed a neat little spell that provided him with a second flask. “This one’s not bottomless, but that _would_ be cheating.”

Eliot dipped the empty flask into the Fountain and filled it to the top before capping it. “Good for a little pick-me-up later.”

After a moment, Eliot’s expression turned sly. “Q… Do you really think you have some god-level power going on? And it’s just your lack of physical manifestation holding you back? Because you physically manifest when you’re with me, and you healed my wound like…completely. And you know how um… how Ember bestowed power? And how when you came in my mouth, we banished the reaper? What if… I mean, what if you have godly seed, Q? It would be absolutely irresponsible of me not to partake.”

“Are you working up to ask to give me a blowjob before we talk to Todd?” The idea of godly seed did amuse Quentin, but he wasn’t entirely sure what it would mean. Boost Eliot’s battle magic if they had to bust their way out? “I mean, it probably couldn’t hurt…”

“How easily you see through me,” Eliot deadpanned. “Also we need to get Plover away from the wall and maybe stop his little ritual. Some sex magic seems like it would be the most painless—not to mention enjoyable—way to achieve that.”

Eliot drank more whisky, then pocketed the flasks and dropped to his knees in the glowing blue light of the Fountain. He gazed up at Quentin with a loving light in his eyes. “Free your godly cock and give your worshipper suckle already.” He paused, smiling a little, and asked in a lilting undertone, “Cock worship counts, right?”

“You’re the expert. But um… I’m not sure how excited I’m going to get with a pedophile like… right there.” Quentin turned his back to the wall and moved forward a few feet so he wouldn’t accidentally just fall through. But it was true, knowing that Plover was right there could prove problematic when it came to arousal. “Might need some dirty talk.”

“Mm oh no, twist my arm.” Eliot grinned and leaned in to nuzzle Quentin right through his trousers. He breathed through the fabric, hot against Quentin’s soft cock, and then Eliot whispered, “I’m going to give you the blowjob of your life, Q. If you get your body back and go all god-level Time Lord, you need something to look back on fondly.”

Eliot didn’t even look back toward Plover, but he raised a brow as he gazed up at Quentin. “Don’t you think it’s poetic we’re about to fuck him up with the power of consensual sex between loving adults?”

“I guess there’s that.” Quentin opened his pants, then pulled his cock out over the top of his underwear. He worked it himself a few times, but also the idea of becoming a god and needing to remember this fondly wasn’t helping his situation. “Didn’t really come back to be a god, though. I came back for you.”

Eliot’s handsome face twisted into something pained and then he smoothed his expression and nodded. “I know, Q. But…whatever happens, I’m yours.” He leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against the head of Quentin’s cock, looking up at him with those big doe eyes, beneath his long lashes. “I love you. I loved you when you were a dorky potential coming to take your test, I loved you when you were an awkward nobody trying to get your footing as a first year. I will love you when you become all you’re meant to be, Quentin. It doesn’t have to—If you have the power, _you_ decide how to use it.”

Then Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand and rested it at the back of his head. His gaze on Quentin’s face was so intense, so focused, as Eliot was only in rare moments. Then he leaned in and mouthed Quentin’s tip, wet and hot and good, his hands coming up to grasp Quentin’s ass and knead it in his palms. The desire written across his features was unmistakable, naked, and there was no denying Eliot meant what he said, no matter how much the little voices of negativity in Quentin’s head yelled.

Quentin remembered all too well when Julia told him she was going to be a goddess. That she couldn’t help them anymore because of other duties. How crushed he’d been. Happy for her, of course. He’d thrown himself into the quest, but ultimately, she _had_ come back, hadn’t she?

He’d always wanted to be the big damn hero. The White Knight, maybe even the Savior, problematic as that might be. As a kid, that was his ultimate goal.

Now that he was an adult, there was so much more to life and to the world than being righteous. And justice was often a lot more complicated than it seemed.

All of that vanished, though, as he sank into the wet warmth of Eliot’s mouth. Quentin gazed down at him, supporting his head, careful to let Eliot set how deep he could go, though Quentin was still growing hard as Eliot sucked him.

He wanted to speak, to tell Eliot that the difference between being a god and a Time Lord was that Doctor Who could travel through space and time _with his friends._ Or lovers.

But again, Eliot’s cheeks hollowed as he pulled back, and Quentin lost himself to the feeling, bought back to the present, filled with lust as he tightened his grip on Eliot’s head. He was hard now as he thrust into him, down to his throat, all the way to the hilt.

Quentin shuddered, curling his fingers into Eliot’s hair as he worked up to a careful rhythm. Eliot groaned as if this was exactly what he wanted, as if nothing would give him more pleasure than to suck Quentin’s cock here at the secret heart of the worlds. Eerie power flowed around them, teasing at Quentin’s not-quite-flesh. Little frissons of magic surged through him everywhere Eliot touched him, as if Eliot were grounding Quentin in the present and feeding strength into him through their connection.

As Quentin thrust faster, Eliot tipped back his head, letting Quentin take him over wholly, doing with Eliot as he pleased, and if this was being a god, it was no different than it had ever been between them. Eliot, for all his faults and foibles, had always treated Quentin’s body as precious, had always given Quentin all the joy he could to offset Quentin’s chronic depression. It was like Eliot understood that Quentin needed more than just sex, just to get off. Quentin needed a connection, a bond. _Love._

Maybe Eliot teased him and prodded him and refused to consider marriage—still a sore spot—but Eliot loved Quentin. Eliot’s love had sustained Quentin for fifty years of frustration and struggle. Eliot’s love had brought Quentin back to life and anchored him here in Fillory.

Then Eliot lunged forward to take him completely and swallowed around Quentin’s cock, choking himself on Quentin and gazing up at him in open adoration as tears streamed from his watering eyes.

What was a god without worship?

Quentin held Eliot’s head with both hands, driving into him, relishing the way his tongue moved, his cheeks hollowed, as Quentin thrust down his throat. It was love and connection, dedication and commitment.

Eliot pulled down Quentin’s underwear, slid his fingers down Quentin’s cleft, and Quentin knew he was going to come undone sooner rather than later.

“Yes. Yes. _Please_ ,” Quentin whispered as Eliot probed him with his finger, going straight to that spot inside him.

Quentin bucked forward, bent at the waist, wrapping around Eliot’s head as he let out the guttural moan that came with his release into Eliot’s mouth. Everything else melted away, forgotten in the rush of bliss as Eliot swallowed Quentin’s seed, godly or not, and let Quentin fuck his mouth as aftershocks shook through him. He trembled, knees weak, and rode out every last bit of triumph with Eliot’s hands holding him up, Eliot’s finger coaxing every drop of Quentin’s climax down his throat.

As Quentin grew overwhelmed, Eliot let him pull back and then licked and nuzzled him clean, taking care of Quentin as if he needed only to slump there on shaky legs and be attended. Eliot had always been good at that, at tending to Quentin when he was melting down or just outside himself. While Quentin caught his breath, Eliot neatened his clothes, tugging Quentin’s underwear back into place, tucking away his spent, twitching, licked-clean cock.

Then Eliot rose and kissed him, slow, sweet, and searching, arms wrapping around Quentin and making him feel anchored again as he came back to himself. “Mission accomplished,” he murmured.

He turned Quentin around to face the tunnel, and there was no sign of Plover. He’d abandoned the basin and fingerbone stylus at the wall when he fled.

“It won’t last long. Let’s move.” Eliot moved to the wall and pressed on it, hand slipping through. “Guess the Coldwater spunk was just what I needed.”

Quentin felt a little woozy after his release, loose-limbed in the best way, though not great for focusing on an important task like escape. He needed to pull it together.

“I wonder if… if Todd would talk to you. You know, if you go in there all Daddy-voiced…” Quentin mentally prepared for the gravity shift, then walked through the wall, surprised at how much more easily he managed it now that he knew what was coming.

When he’d done it before, returning to Eliot’s panicked cries, he’d been in too much of a hurry to accomplish any kind of grace.

Though, after an Eliot blowjob, gravity always seemed a little in flux.

He waited on the other side to catch Eliot if he had trouble. Eliot, though usually the soul of grace, tumbled into Quentin’s arms and chuckled a little as Quentin caught him and helped him balance. The full-body contact made obvious that Eliot was aroused.

In Quentin’s ear, Eliot whispered, “That’s my secret weapon.”

After a moment of grinding mindlessly against Quentin, Eliot stepped back and clarified, “My Daddy voice, not my cock. Although, given our next-level sex magic abilities, I’m gonna say my cock also qualifies.”

Quentin had assumed Eliot meant his cock and wasn’t going to disagree. He felt a little guilt about leaving Eliot aroused, but he could make it up to him later. At least, he hoped so.

In a fit of need, Quentin grabbed Eliot to kiss him deeply again, holding him close. This was all very dangerous, and Quentin was going to try not to let a moment pass without Eliot knowing how loved he was.

But also, they really did have to go.

They headed back through the dungeons. Quentin could sense where the Living Stone ended and Whitespire began. Like a ringing in his ears, almost.

They passed by Stoppard, who watched them impassively, probably tracking them through Quentin’s time magic more than being able to actually see them.

Then they were back up to the ground level of the castle. The scene seemed at least slightly less chaotic. At least, no one was yelling at the moment.

Guards were standing at windows, however, seeming to marvel at the spectacle of flying horses far above. So apparently Margo and Josh were doing fine, well out of range of Fillorian weaponry. The guards’ gazes skated away from Eliot as they approached, as if looking his direction made them acutely uncomfortable.

So far, at least, no one had called an alarm.

Eliot and Quentin returned to the upstairs room where Todd had been before to find him still pacing in frustration. Janet-Margo Coldwawa had gone elsewhere. When Eliot stepped inside, he released the spell and then closed the door behind him. Todd stared at Eliot, apparently stunned, and didn’t appear to notice Quentin at all.

“I hear you’ve been very naughty,” Eliot said in the deep, resonant tone Quentin called his Daddy voice.

Todd startled and stammered. “Y-you-y-you—”

“Yes,” Eliot agreed. “Me.”

Todd’s expression would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad. “He said you were dead. That the Monster killed you.”

“Provably false.” Eliot gestured to his lanky form with a flourish. “I assure you I’m quite intact.”

“He said Margo had been deposed, that this was my chance.”

“Your chance to what?” Eliot’s slow, dangerous drawl sent a shiver down Quentin’s spine.

“Well if you were gone, and I was High King of Fillory…” Todd squirmed, looking beyond uncomfortable. There was nothing kingly about him. As for dark…

“You thought you could finally replace me once and for all, didn’t you?” Eliot smiled just a little. Todd shrunk back, edging toward the balcony. Eliot didn’t move.

“He said… He said Margo was so… He said she was so vulnerable without you that she ended up with _Hoberman_.” Despite the faint tremor in Todd’s voice, he appeared defiant. “I guess that was a lie too?”

“Oh,” Eliot said, cocking his head to the side and frowning. “No, that’s quite true.”

A high, wounded sound escaped Todd, who clutched at his throat like he could will it back. “Then you understand why I had to do this. If I’m High King, then when Margo finally returns to Fillory, she’ll marry me and be my High Queen!”

This wasn’t quite the Todd Quentin remembered. There was something off about him, something disturbing. Maybe three centuries of Plover’s manipulations and Todd’s unchecked obsession with becoming Eliot and being with Margo had that effect.

“You’d need to get the child bride out of the way first,” Eliot observed, his tone and expression deceptively neutral. It was a good thing Todd couldn’t see Quentin.

“Janet?” Todd looked confused. “That’s just… It’s not… He said there would be time.”

“Who’s this ‘he’ you keep talking about?” Eliot managed to sound inquisitive and polite, a feat Quentin would’ve struggled with.

“Oh.” Todd shook his head. He held up his hands in front of him, not to cast but as if to ward Eliot off the subject. “I can’t talk about him. He doesn’t like it.”

“Hm. Because I think I know who _he_ is. And I don’t think he’s telling you the truth.” Eliot narrowed his gaze and asked, “Do you trust me, Todd?”

“What?” Todd’s poleaxed expression suggested he didn’t even know what trust was anymore.

“Let me rephrase. Do you want to survive, Todd?” Eliot held out his hand. “Come with me if you want to live.”

Quentin wasn’t sure if taking Todd with them would be smart, but then, Todd wasn’t likely to open up about much while he was here. He seemed paranoid, and Quentin wasn’t sure if a disembodied voice was going to help that. Though, if he needed to spook Todd into going along with Eliot, he wasn’t above being a scary poltergeist.

When Todd hesitated, though, Eliot brought out the big guns. “C’mon, I’ll take you to Margo.”

Todd opened his mouth and closed it a few times, a dopey smile overtaking his face. “Really?”

“Of course, really. You think I don’t have a line on Bambi?” Eliot tsk’ed and rolled his eyes as he waggled his fingers at Todd. “If you want her love, you’re going to have to fight for it, but you’re going about it entirely the wrong way. I’m going to strongly suggest you get with the program tout de suite because I am _not_ loving what you’ve done with the place.”

That, at least, sounded enough like classic Eliot that Todd responded at once, grinning as he stepped forward and reverently took Eliot’s hand. “You came here just for me?”

The pitying look Eliot gave him seemed lost on Todd. “Sure, Todd. But you can’t stay with us just yet. We need you to be our inside man.”

“Oh!” Todd’s excitement blossomed across his face, making him look more like his old self. “Yeah! Your inside man! What do you need me to do?”

Eliot’s shark-like smile promised nothing good for Todd, but Todd didn’t seem to realize it. He’d clasped Eliot’s hand to his chest like he couldn’t believe he was holding it.

“I’m going to need you to help me liberate Janet Coldwawa. You _do_ know who she is, don’t you?”

“Oh sure. She’s from an old magical line in Fillory. He doesn’t trust magicians, though, so he made them all leave. Janet’s special, though, because we adopted her young. She’s been raised properly, so she won’t use her magic against us.” Todd really seemed to believe that.

That was the problem with hero worship; sometimes you chose the wrong hero. Apparently Plover had filled that void for Todd, who now regarded his word as gospel.

Eliot exhaled slowly, seeming to draw on reserves of patience. Then, very quietly, he said, “She’s my great, great, great— _fuck_ —granddaughter with Quentin, and if you lay a hand on her—if _he_ lays a hand on her—I will end you all in slow, painful ways. You will die choking on your own shitty viscera.”

Visibly quailing, Todd nodded. “I—She’s— How?”

“That’s entirely none of your business, but suffice to say, she’s _mine_. I will fight for her. I will die for her. And you will too, if you have any concept of decency.” Eliot paused there, staring at Todd like he was boring into his soul. “Did you honestly not notice Janet looks _exactly_ like Q?”

“What? No.” Todd looked as if Eliot had punched him. “She does?”

Eliot widened his eyes and sighed, put-upon. “Todd, and I say this with utmost fondness, you are a fucking mess.”

Tugging Todd’s hand, Eliot headed for the door. “Let’s get Janet and get out of here.”

Todd resisted, expression terrified. “We can’t.”

Eliot rounded on him, brows drawn together over thunderous eyes. “Why not?”

“Because _he_ took her.”

“What?” Quentin didn’t wait for an answer, just threw open the door, running in a blind panic through the corridors, peeking into rooms until he hit the end of the hall not having seen her.

He ran back into the room where Todd looked terrified and Eliot appeared to be trying to calm him down.

“Where did he take her? Oh my god, I was just standing in here listening to you and your insane 300-year love quest for Margo while my granddaughter is… is off with Plover. FUCKING TODD!” Quentin yelled. His hands heated up as magic swirled wildly around him.

“What the—” Todd flailed behind Eliot, peeking over his shoulder. It seemed like he couldn’t actually _see_ Quentin, but apparently he saw the magic manifesting. “ _Quentin?_ ”

“Yes, Todd. It’s Quentin. It’s complicated. Suffice to say if you don’t help him find our great-great-great-great…whatever…granddaughter, he’s going to devour your soul.” Eliot said it as if it was regrettable but inevitable.

“Oh shit. Um. No, don’t. She’s um…” Todd shook his head and clutched at Eliot like he was afraid his human shield might leave. “She’s in the throne room. They’re talking about the wedding.”

“You left her alone with him? _Do you know what he is?_ ” Quentin stormed forward. He’d never wanted to hit anyone as badly as he did right now, and he wasn’t even sure if he _could._

“He won’t. He wouldn’t. She’s got to be a virgin on her wedding night. He was very clear about that. Though I wasn’t… I mean, she can stay a virgin _forever_ as far as I’m concerned.” Todd held his hands up. “I promise.”

“But wha— Why— Fuck it.” Quentin spun on his toes and ran back out, heading up the stairs to the throne room.

A virgin. So, there was that, at least. Of course, depending on what Plover meant by that… Well, there was a whole range of creepy shit that could be going on.

When Quentin ran into the room, Janet’s head snapped up, her eyes wide at him while Plover seemed entirely focused on a white baby-doll-style dress that he fondled like it was a lover.

Plover didn’t seem to notice him, but Janet tilted her head, looking between Quentin and Plover until Quentin held his finger to his lips.

He was shocked that she could see him, but perhaps he’d been so stirred up… Bloodlines… Who knew? She seemed canny enough to play along.

While she didn’t look afraid of Plover, she did shy away from his attempt to touch her, as if she sensed something wrong with him. It took everything in Quentin not to run over and slap Plover’s hands away.

Fortunately, Plover didn’t linger long beside Janet. He seemed to accept her lack of affection with good grace and just motioned for her to follow him as he approached the pulpit located on the dais. The old, cursed thrones were absent, and the room was bedecked in flowers and festooned with bright fabric.

“Now, Janet… You’re certainly precocious, but you know little about weddings, so you’ll have to trust me to manage affairs for you. King Eliot is, of course, thrilled as the day draws near, but these little last-minute details are ours to arrange.” Still holding the gown, Plover motioned for Janet to take her place, which she did with a certain fatalism that rang familiar for Quentin.

“I’ll perform the ceremony according to the traditional Fillorian customs, with some minor modifications suitable for your lineage.” Plover gestured to a book on the pulpit and then stepped around to its front, leaving Quentin with a clear shot to the book. Plover droned on about how two magicians marrying, becoming High King and High Queen, was a most auspicious occasion, blah blah blah, but what leapt out at Quentin was, “You will be bound as man and wife, magically and spiritually.”

What was in that book? Quentin didn’t remember that from any ceremony he’d heard.

“But I’ve told you before, I don’t have magic.” Janet sounded almost bored, a perfect cover for when she glanced at Quentin.

Quentin gestured to the book and started toward it, letting her know his plan, hoping she’d help keep Plover away so he could read it.

“I’m just not sure about these foxgloves,” she said, turning to the flowers lining the aisle.

“Oh? What’s wrong with them? They add vertical interest, I thought.” Plover followed her and looked up at them.

“I dunno. They kind of look like depressed orchids to me.”

Quentin took the opportunity to sneak up to the book. It didn’t look like a ceremony so much as a ritual. A ritual of binding.

That seemed extreme, even for a Fillorian wedding.

He turned the page, realizing now that this wasn’t a book as much as a journal. He recognized Plover’s handwriting from when he’d blithely signed a book for him as if Quentin was anything but a horrified, broken-hearted ex-fanboy.

This spell looked cruel. Painful.

_Magic comes from pain._

Quentin looked up at Janet, who gave him a questioning look.

He held up a finger, indicating he needed another minute, so she moved further away, pretending to test out the chairs.

“But you really _should_ try on the dress,” Plover insisted, holding it close to her as she stood on the seat.

“There’s no dressing room.”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine, Janet. We’re family. There’s no shame.”

Quentin’s fists clenched as he gritted his teeth. Rage was building.

She looked over her shoulder at Quentin, a trace of fear in her eyes.

Afraid of Quentin? Or Plover?

Quentin glared at the dress. Something flowed through him, and without him really thinking of it, his hands were forming a tut. The front of the dress tore.

_Shit._

He hadn’t meant to. It reminded him of when Eliot said he’d accidentally killed his bully by telekinetically pushing him into a bus. Did Q just use Eliot’s power?

And would that expose to Plover that they weren’t alone in the room?

Fortunately, Plover simply stared at the dress and then up at Janet. “No magic, you said. But look at what you’ve done. That is really quite… exceptional.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Janet hopped off the chair, looking relieved but also like she was trying to placate Plover.

“Of course, you didn’t. It’s all right. A bit of lace, we can patch this up. It’s fine, it’s fine.” Plover started to head out of the throne room, presumably to find someone to sew it up.

Janet gave Quentin one last look and then followed Plover out.

Quentin turned the page in the book and found…nothing. No more notes.

He skipped to the beginning, and it became apparent how the Living Stone had been breached—and what had really happened to the Coldwawas. It appeared more a personal grimoire of Plover’s, cobbling together magic of different types. Trial and error. Notes. Sigils.

And the number thirteen. Over and over. Plover seemed to find significance in the number. Like Voldemort was obsessed with seven.

Quentin returned the book to the original page, then headed down the stairs and back to where Eliot was lecturing Todd on… it appeared a cocktail of some sort.

Quentin felt shaky and not just from the magic he’d expended. He was honestly disturbed.

“Ah, Q.” Eliot smiled at him in open relief. “Is our little Janet-Margo Coldwater-Waugh doing all right?” His brow furrowed as if he worried over what Quentin’s answer might be. “You aren’t weeping or covered in the blood of slain enemies, so I presume she persists in the realm of the living?”

“I told you he wouldn’t hurt her—” Todd started before Eliot reached out and slapped him full across the face.

“You don’t get to comment on that.” Eliot’s dark eyes blazed as Todd lifted a hand to his cheek, cradling it and looking at Eliot in shock. “You’ve been complicit in the abduction and wrongful detention of a _little girl_ , Todd. Don’t pretend you’re some good guy because—as far as _you_ know—she hasn’t been molested.”

A horrible sound wrenched from Todd, and his expression crumpled. He looked like Eliot had kicked him in the crotch, just as sick and horrified, and slowly sank to the chaise, clutching himself and choking back a sob.

“No.” Eliot shook his head just once, and Todd watched attentively, like a rabbit would watch a wolf. “You don’t get to cry about this right now. You can cry about it after you’ve helped us save her.”

Then Eliot returned his gaze to Quentin, the love coming back into his expression. It was like night and day. “What did you find?”

“It’s not just a wedding. It’s a magical binding. Combining their magical power.” Quentin threw himself at Eliot, needing some reassurance. He must not have felt him use the magic to rend the dress, which was good because Quentin didn’t think he could talk about that yet. “Then there’s this… It’s… cruel. It’s… it’s torture. I think to manifest her magic, but you’ll be bound, Todd. So you… couldn’t… You’d just be…”

“Torture?” Todd echoed as Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin and held him close.

“Magic comes from pain,” Eliot muttered, kissing Quentin’s temple and swaying a little, hands roaming up and down Quentin’s back soothingly. “If Plover’s going to use Janet-Margo’s magic…”

“Why me? I’ve—” Todd looked pale and lost, nauseated. In a tiny, disgusted voice, he muttered, “I helped him.”

“He’s not your friend, Todd. He’s no one’s friend. He wants to get to the Fountain in Blackspire and become his own Beast. It’s not bad enough he ruined Fillory for Martin, then for all of us, he has to do it again.” Quentin held up his hands, restraining himself from throttling Todd and not just because he wasn’t sure it would even work.

“Listen, Todd, that’s… that’s the thing with predators like Plover. They groom you. They find your weak spots. They cultivate loyalty. That’s what pedophiles _do._ He groomed you as much as he grooms everyone else.”

It killed Quentin to say, because a large part of him really thought Todd should _know better._ Three hundred years had apparently passed, and he seemed no wiser than he was in the cottage.

Or had it?

There was a horomancer in the dungeon. It was possible time had been changed or condensed.

This was all too much.

Once again Todd looked like he wanted to cry, but he glanced to Eliot and firmed up.

“I know,” he admitted miserably. “I fucked up. I just…” His voice wobbled. “I just wanted to be liked. I wanted to be like you, Eliot.”

Eliot sighed, seeming to sag a little in Quentin’s embrace. “I would never have helped Plover. I wouldn’t let myself be manipulated by a creepy, evil pedo. You’re ancient, Todd! How are you still so naïve?”

“I’m like thirty-three!” Todd protested. “Time is all out of whack here. I’m not always… I mean… Sometimes I’m…” He trailed off, face flushed. “Sometimes, when Plover doesn’t need my help, he has Stoppard suspend me.”

“Oh, Todd.” Eliot’s sigh this time dwarfed the one before. “You let him _suspend you in time_ , and you _still_ helped him?”

“He said it was so I wouldn’t get old before Margo came back! He managed all the boring daily affairs, and I came out of stasis to host parties and festivals and sign important documents.” Todd sounded like he’d thought that was a good deal.

“All right, look. We can’t fix any of that now, but I need you to…” Quentin wasn’t sure what he needed Todd to do exactly. “I need you to stay with Janet. I need you to keep eyes on her at all times and to _never_ leave her alone with Plover. We’re going to… We’re going to do something. Just be ready to grab her and run when we do.”

Todd nodded gravely and swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What about Stoppard?”

Eliot sniffed delicately. “We’ll rescue him too. This is a coup, motherfucker.”


	13. Call It a Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call it whatever you will. Penny 40 stops by. Quentin becomes a real boy.

Getting back to Fizzlesnip had taken a bit of wandering around in the dark, mostly because Quentin kept stopping to obsess about whether Janet would really be all right. Todd had seemed truly dedicated to protecting her, but he had a habit of really Todding things up. It made it difficult to focus on getting back to the sea cave.

The flight back was mostly quiet. Quentin wasn’t as up for conversation after having witnessed Plover manipulating a child for the second time in his life. At least this time he’d been able to intervene.

He was still buzzing from the magic and the heady notion of god powers. Worried, too. Right now, he just wanted to cling to Eliot and listen to him trade playful barbs with Fizzlesnip. He seemed to know Quentin just needed to hold him and process.

When they returned to the cottage, someone had lit the torches, and Margo and Josh were going at it again.

That had to be… unusual, right? Then again, he and Eliot were pretty active, so he probably shouldn’t throw stones.

Eliot didn’t even hesitate to dismount and beeline for the cottage door. It didn’t faze him. Of course, he and Margo had probably seen each other in flagrante delicto so many times it was just like watching each other brush their teeth at this point.

Though Quentin only kind of remembered it, he’d been part of one of those nights, and he couldn’t complain.

Still, he didn’t _really_ want to see Josh’s doughy dad bod doing Cirque du Soleil acrobatics naked while lodged somewhere in Margo’s corpus. He hung back as Eliot barged inside and exclaimed, “We’re back, bitches, and do we have news for you.”

Josh’s strained voice said, “With you in a minute, El. We’re trying something new.”

Eliot didn’t budge from his spot.

Quentin stood outside of the cottage, putting his back to the wall with his arms folded. The Prince of the Mud was apparently still eating his fill in Brighthaven, or napping. At any rate, he wouldn’t be hard to spot when or if he returned.

Probably when. He did seem to love that Croc.

“El, I can’t get my leg up… Yeah. Oh yes, yes… Right there, like that!” Margo did seem to be enjoying whatever was happening.

Quentin half turned to look, then thought better of it. Sounded like they were close to being done anyway.

As they did whatever they were doing, Eliot asked, “So, Hoberman, are you just into the seventies bush look, or has Mama been too busy to wax?”

Josh laughed, then gasped, and said, “Margo’s natural beauty is impeccable.”

Eliot’s voice communicated his grin. “Good answer.”

“Pussy hair never killed anybody. Well, except in that Hentai, which was a neat…” Margo moaned again. “…trick.”

“You know, pubic hair is there for a reason. It’s protective. Also, a sign that someone has achieved puberty and is of age, which is something some of us are really into.” Quentin frowned at himself. He didn’t want to ruin Margo’s good time, but this needed to wrap up soon.

Laughing, Eliot called out, “Q, now we all know why you love my gloriously hairy chest. You’re just, like, super into adults.”

There was an edge to his voice, though, and he started chanting in what sounded like Tamil. Josh groaned suddenly and there was a sound like bones popping.

“Waugh, what’re you—”

Eliot kept chanting, and Quentin could feel the magic pulling between them as Eliot worked a spell. Hoberman groaned again, sounding somewhere between pained and ecstatic, and the bedframe creaked rhythmically.

Quentin peered around through the doorframe. He caught Eliot’s eye. “I do owe you a blowjob, don’t I?”

After chanting a few more moments in Tamil, Eliot finally answered. “Mm no, no such simple act of recompense. I’ll be collecting with interest.”

Eliot raised his eyebrows at Quentin and smiled, a wicked light in his eyes. Quentin had to wonder how Eliot could be so constantly in the mood, always the party boy on the worst of nights, but he knew that was how Eliot coped.

Hoberman was whimpering now, sounding on the verge of climax. “Margo?” Josh’s breathy plea and the meaty sounds of bodies colliding painted a picture no matter how much Quentin was avoiding looking anywhere but at Eliot.

“Yes. There… I’m there. Yes. Like that. _Fuck_.” Margo cried out in what sounded like an amazing orgasm. It went on embarrassingly long.

Quentin’s cock twitched with interest, but this was not a boundary he could cross. Probably.

Sexually-transmitted lycanthropy might not infect a noncorporeal being, but mostly, Quentin was tired and wanted to talk about what was going on.

After Josh’s answering groan signaled his release, Quentin stepped into the cottage, observing their highly unlikely position and Eliot propping one of Margo’s legs at an impossible-looking angle, but said nothing about it. Instead, he just explained as briefly as possible what he believed was happening with Plover, Todd, and his great granddaughter Janet. As he spoke, the couple disentangled themselves and Eliot came to stand beside Quentin, one arm slipping around his waist.

“So now we’ve got two days. Stoppard and the Napster seem to think I need a body, but I don’t even know where to start with that.” Quentin avoided eye contact. With everyone.

“Where’s um… Where’s the Prince?” Hoberman asked, not bothering to get dressed. Quentin didn’t think he himself was the best-looking guy in the world, but he had to be hotter than Josh, and even so, Quentin had a certain amount of modesty. Where did Hoberman get his confidence?

“The Prince of the Mud?” Eliot sounded uncertain, as if there was no reason anyone would ever want that giant murder-turtle for anything.

“Yeah. I mean… Look.” Josh rubbed the back of his neck and settled on the edge of the bed, legs hanging over the side and one hand planted on Margo’s thigh possessively. “In timeline 23, the… This may be upsetting, Q, but in timeline 23, that Alice wanted to bring back her Quentin after he was torn apart, body and shade, by the Beast. She told us that she made a deal with a magical creature in the Northern Marsh, promising him her soul after death in exchange for bringing back her Quentin’s body. The creature couldn’t bring back his shade too, and the shadeless Quentin went on to become the Beast himself in that timeline, but look—”

Josh waved his hand as if brushing all that highly disturbing history aside. “The Prince of the Mud is from the Northern Marsh. Margo told me there wasn’t much else there, as far as powerful magical creatures go. It seems obvious that the creature Alice 23 made a deal with is the Prince. The Prince is our ally. Ergo, we convince the Prince to provide Quentin with a body, and since he’s already fully shady, no Beastarini! Boom. Done.”

Hoberman dusted his hands together and mimed shooting a basket before returning his hand to Margo’s bare thigh and giving her a puppyish look, like he was waiting for praise.

Quentin shuddered. That big fucking turtle again. He was going to be haunted for life and possibly into his unlife, if he had one at this rate, all because he sent Margo off after a turtle and wasn’t specific enough.

Then again, a body was a body, right? He needed one to defeat Plover, to take the castle, and to ensure that he was around to sexually service Eliot.

Quentin rubbed the back of his neck. “Whose soul, though? You think he might do it for Crocella? I mean, he’s not _exactly_ an ally. He hangs around for Crocella and probably to see if he can eat Eliot.”

Margo shrugged. “Crocs have soles at the bottom. What are the odds that the Prince of the Mud can spell?”

Eliot snorted. “I think you’re missing the easiest target here… Plover. We promise the Prince the pedo’s soul to keep him company for eternity. I mean, Plover’s essentially immortal, right? But if we give the Prince incentive to help us kill him… Well.”

Hoberman cocked his head to the side and then nodded thoughtfully. “It’s an idea.”

“It’s a _good_ idea,” Eliot insisted, hugging Quentin against his side. “Two birds, one stone. Plover’s handled, and Q’s re-embodied.”

“And if Princey hesitates to assist, we sweeten the deal with Crocella,” Josh agreed. “ _Now_ this is beginning to sound like a plan.” He looked sideways to Margo and asked, “Honey?”

“Can we just promise other people’s souls to people?” Margo looked uncertain. “We’d be asking him to take it on credit since Plover isn’t already dead. And maybe can’t die? And are we _sure_ he has a soul to be bargained with?”

She had a point. Quentin frowned. “It’s possible he disconnected from his shade to do all of this but then again, we saw how he was on Earth, so… we could pitch it to him. I like the Croc idea, personally. Binding Plover with the Prince… I’d actually feel bad for the Prince, I think.”

Eliot grunted in apparent displeasure. “I might feel bad for the Prince someday, maybe, if he quits trying to devour my luscious flesh. In the meantime, though, he deserves what he gets.”

Hoberman held up one hand as if to beg patience. “We’ll talk to the Prince, see what he requires. Maybe if Alice 23 had a giant Croc to bargain with, she wouldn’t have needed to pledge her soul.” Hoberman sounded dubious though. “I mean, I haven’t, um…seen Crocella in action, but she sounds very effective.”

“She’s not just any Croc, she’s _my_ Croc, so you know it’s good.” Margo waggled her brows at Hoberman.

“I guess without him to answer, it’s turtles all the way down.” Quentin grinned, enjoying his pun and joke about infinite regress, but everyone just stared at him, with Margo looking especially annoyed, probably because she got it.

Before anyone could comment, there was a loud belch from outside and a loud, wheezing voice. “Crocella! Crocella, where are you?”

Eliot dramatically leapt onto the bed and planted himself behind Hoberman’s naked back. “Don’t let him get me.”

Twisting to try to look at Eliot, Hoberman said, “What the fuck, man?” Then he looked to Margo and assured her, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect him.”

“He can protect himself. Ovary up, El.” Margo rolled out of the bed and pulled on her clothes almost casually.

Quentin took a few deep breaths, preparing himself to negotiate with the Prince of the Mud.

Margo stopped him and patted his cheek. “It’ll be all right, Q. We’ll find a way. I’ll back you up. Threaten him if I have to.”

Quentin nodded, then walked out with her.

“Margo. Where is Crocella?”

“She’s waiting for you, but she’d like you to do a _little_ something for us.”

“What is this little something? I am full and I would like to rest before my minions arrive.”

That was news. Minions? Was he raising his own army?

“What minions?” Quentin asked.

“Ahh, just some Fillorians.” The Prince of the Mud sounded more annoyed than anything else. “Fillorians United. They have declared me the Savior of Brighthaven because I ate the army of ants.”

“You ate _all_ of them?” Quentin wasn’t really sure how many there had been, or how many ants it took to fill a giant magical snapping turtle, but it still sounded like a lot.

The Prince belched again as if to underline that statement. “Too much fiber, probably. I’m going to be farting razor blades, but you know how it is. Feast or famine.”

“Wait, you found the FU fighters?” Margo looked delighted. “And they’re on the way here?”

“Huh? Yes. FU fighters. They have already created a song in my honor. I don’t remember much of it, something like,” the Prince sang almost tunelessly, “ _There goes my hero, watch him as he goes._ ”

Margo and Quentin looked at each other, brows furrowed.

“Anyway,” Margo said, being the first to recover from that moment. “I heard a rumor that you can restore or make bodies?”

“Mm, it’s possible. It’s very dark magic. Requires much sacrifice.” The Prince gazed down at her out of one eye. “I require a soul.”

There was something way too eager about the way that he looked at Margo, and Quentin wanted to pull her back.

But she, defiantly, stepped into the Prince’s glare. “Like Crocella?”

He gave her a pitying look as he withdrew. “You do know that’s just a shoe, right?”

Coughing, Josh burst out of the shack with Eliot right behind him. Josh wore pants now, at least.

“Hey! Um, Prince!” Josh walked up to stand beside Margo, apparently propelled by Eliot, who moved to stand at Quentin’s side afterward. “How, um, willing does the soul have to be to spend eternity with you?”

Eliot glared at Josh as if he’d fumbled the pass and much more smoothly suggested, “How would you feel about saving Fillory and acquiring a gently used soul in the process?”

“They’re all used. You can’t pledge a soul you don’t currently own. But, I do enjoy having songs written about my heroism.” The Prince of the Mud tilted his head up as if consulting the stars.

“I thought that song was about Kurt Cob—”

Margo put her hand over Quentin’s mouth and shook her head once, glaring at him. “Of course you do, Prince. And a well-deserved honor. I’ll level with you, we need a body for our friend Quentin here, and we’d need it on credit. But what we propose is that we can get you the soul of the Dark King himself.”

“This one?” The Prince stretched out moving his snout right up to Eliot.

“No.” More out of reflex than anything else, Quentin swatted it and surprisingly, it connected.

And apparently, made an impact, because the giant turtle snapped his head back into his shell.

Margo widened her eyes at Quentin and held up her hands like, _hey, we’re trying to make a deal here._

“Hm.” The word came out like a rumble from the shell, practically vibrating. He poked his head out again. “The body is for the one you call the Quentin?”

“Yeah. It’s for me.” Quentin stepped forward even though the Prince didn’t seem to be able to see him, exactly.

The Prince sniffed all around him, unnerving and just a little _wet_ from snot. “Binding this manifestation to a body from scratch is something I can do. But the soul must be willingly given. You may make the deal with the soul of this one. If you get the Dark King to agree, I will amend the pact, but you, Quentin, in your full power, will owe me a favor.”

Quentin exhaled. A favor?

“That favor cannot be you getting to eat Eliot.”

The Prince sniffed as if offended. “I would not ask a being of such power for a simple snack.”

And there it was again. This idea that Quentin had unusual power. Maybe god-like. That opened what a giant turtle could ask of him to a scarily wide field.

Then again, he didn’t have many options. He had to have a body. That seemed to be the chorus of this song, and while there were probably a million ways to do it, he had to do it within two days to save Janet, which didn’t leave a lot of time to explore those options.

Stoppard could potentially give them more time, but again, he couldn’t break Stoppard out without a body and so…

Quentin folded his arms as he turned around to the others to consult.

To his great surprise, Penny 40 stood right in front of him, suited and looking a little the worse for wear.

“Coldwater, I don’t know what’s holding you up, but I can only stall the Underworld’s paperwork for so long. Hades himself is gonna take an interest if you don’t flesh it out pronto.”

Josh waved and warbled, “Hey, Penny. Good to see you.”

Penny shot Josh a narrowed-eyed gaze and otherwise ignored him. His focus was on Quentin to an alarming degree. “Just because Cooper the reaper doesn’t think you’re his territory doesn’t mean there aren’t bigger fish preparing to come take a bite out of your pasty little ass.”

“Can’t you tell them I already _have_ a permanent ass biter?” Quentin pushed his hair back behind his ear, hoping the levity would help him stall for time or come up with some kind of inspiration. “It’s just… it’s a soul. One that’s not mine. Don’t you have any spare ones laying around we could give him? Someone who really, really likes turtles?”

“You’re asking me for a spare soul?” Penny’s disbelief was palpable. He was making that old, familiar face that said quite clearly _Quentin, you are an unbelievable dumbass._

Eliot cut in, smiling a little. “Maybe a chelonaphiliac who’s been _really_ good?” He hesitated, brow furrowed. “Do those exist?”

With a little shudder, Penny grumbled, “Chelonaphiliacs exist, but I dunno if I’d call any of them _good_.”

“I thought the afterlife made you less judgy.” Eliot pouted. “C’mon, we need to trade a soul to a giant turtle to get him to provide Q with a new body, but the soul has to be willing, apparently.”

The Prince crept forward. “I see you have an emissary of the Underworld here.”

Quentin made sure that he was between the giant turtle and Eliot, then turned around. “Sure. We can call him that.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah, I mean, you should’ve seen him before with these bohemian vests, and his shirt wide open…and that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” Quentin refused to turn around because he wasn’t going to face Eliot or Penny after that remark.

“I believe that you can provide me a soul one way or the other. You are well connected. We have to go back to the Northern Marsh, though. That is where my Living Mud is.” The Prince of the Mud turned his back to him and seemed to be waiting expectantly for…something.

“Get on his back, Coldwater. It’s a lot faster than walking and I’m not risking another Pegasus.” Margo turned to Josh. “I’m going to go with them, make sure they don’t get into too much trouble. You stay and greet the FU fighters.”

 “I’m coming too!” Eliot bolted forward to hook his arm around Quentin, maybe a little more possessive than usual, considering the Penny comments. Of course, knowing Eliot, he probably agreed.

Josh watched them all make ready to go with a good-natured smile on his face. Quentin figured he was used to getting left behind at this point. “I’ll go my best to prepare them for our next steps. Good luck, Margo.” He kissed her more deeply than Quentin found strictly necessary and then stepped back and waved to Quentin. “Good luck, Coldwater.”

Penny narrowed his gaze. “This emissary of the Underworld wants to see how you pull this off. I’ll meet you there.” Then Penny disappeared. He’d always had a habit of doing that.

Margo took Eliot’s other arm and, with a graceful bolt of magic, they were all boosted to the peak of the Prince of the Mud’s shell.

It was strange to be up here, but Quentin supposed it was about to be the least strange thing that had happened to him today.

The Prince of the Mud started to move, and it felt as if the world were buzzing by, blurry with the speed. “Ah, I did enjoy that serenade by the FU Fighters. Quentin, sing me a song.”

“I’m not really much of a singer. Eliot’s—”

“Sing to me, _Quentin_.”

Margo held up her hands. “Sing him a song.”

What kind of song did giant turtles even like?

Quentin turned to Eliot, taking his hand, and words came out. “ _Hello, I’ve waited here for you… Everlong._ ”

Margo rolled her eyes, but joined in. “ _Tonight, I throw myself into and out of the red, out of her head she sang…_ ”

Eliot twined his fingers with Quentin’s and shimmied a little, getting into it the way he always did. Despite their moderately precarious perch atop a giant turtle, Eliot got his grind on, one hand dropping to Quentin’s hip. _“Come down and waste away with me… Down with me…”_

Once Eliot was dancing and they were all singing, it seemed like a party, like some amazing Fillorian celebration of life. And it was, wasn’t it? Quentin was getting his body back. He was going to be a real boy.

They all sang together, hitting the chorus, Eliot holding up his hands along with Quentin and Margo’s. They spun in a circle, then Margo and Quentin swung out and rolled back in along Eliot’s long arms until Margo and Quentin were face to face, beaming as they sang, “ _And I wonder when I sing along with you… if everything could ever feel this real forever… if anything could ever be this good aaaaagain._ ”

Somehow, they managed not to fall off, but it definitely seemed to please the Prince; his scaly tail swayed to the beat. He’d been right: This was more fun with a singalong.

Then Eliot turned his face into Quentin’s hair and he sang low and sweet against his ear, _“The only thing I’ll ever ask of you, you gotta promise not to stop when I say when, he sang.”_

As the words sank in, the meaning behind them, Eliot smiled a little shyly and spun Quentin back out before twirling Margo and dipping her dramatically. She laughed and played along as Eliot tugged Quentin back in and dipped him in turn, their own little dance party on turtleback.

Did he mean what Quentin thought he meant? The idea pushed his heart into his throat—or what was passing for heart and throat—and then Quentin remembered he would have both those things very soon. And for the low, low price of someone’s soul.

His, if he couldn’t get Plover to agree to it.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Penny saying, “You don’t have time for this, loser. Take the deal and worry about that later.”

Or maybe he was _really_ saying that. Quentin was fuzzy on the whole Underworld and plane of existence thing, because it sure had felt real.

All at once the music and the movement stopped, and Margo and Eliot’s faces screwed up in expressions of disgust.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. This place smells like farts.” Margo winced.

“So I’m going to be made up of farts?” Quentin asked.

“You weren’t before? Because the day after Taco Tuesday was…” Margo shook her head as Quentin contemplated the nature of humiliation and blushing while non-corporeal. “Anyway, there’s a pier… right there. Oh, hey, Penny!”

“Hey, girl.” Penny lifted his chin at Margo in greeting. He was standing on the pier in his suit, looking supremely untroubled by the stench that had nearly debilitated Margo and Eliot.

Eliot reached into his pocket and then frowned, patting himself down. “I lost my handkerchief. A hell of a time for it, too.” Instead, he produced his flask and started sipping as he descended with long-legged elegance from the Prince’s back toward where Penny stood waiting.

He offered Penny the flask, but Penny demurred. Then Eliot reached up to help Margo and Quentin step down. “Play nice,” he warned them once both were on the pier. Then to Margo he added, “I know he’s a delight to embarrass, but we’ve got to focus right now, Bambi.”

The Prince sank into his mud bog, letting out a somewhat obscene groan. “Ah, it is good to be home. Nothing like sleeping in your own bed after a long time away.”

“We’re um, kind of in a time crunch, um, Savior of Brighthaven.” Quentin tried to seem bright, cheery and not at all like he was pushing, but…

“Yes, yes, I know. You’re all very in a hurry.” The Prince of the Mud’s head vanished under the marsh, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

Quentin looked around at everyone, not sure if that meant he was going to sleep or what.

Margo stood next to Penny and tugged lightly on his jacket. “I know our friend Quentin prefers your other look, but you’re really working this suit.”

“Thanks.” Penny eyefucked Margo head-to-toe and back again, smiling slowly. “You’re making me wish I wasn’t a dead man looking like that.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “You two really should’ve banged when you had the chance.” He looked around the marsh then and back to Quentin. “So I guess we should start making your body out of the Living Mud. If we can locate the Living Mud. I assume once we’ve built it, the Prince will ascend from his comfy burrow and breathe life into it with his special magical creature powers.”

Penny eyed Eliot and laughed mockingly. “Yeah, sure. He didn’t at all just blow y’all off.”

“We have an ace up our shoe. Margo, you think you could lure him out when it’s time? Maybe our old friend Penny here would enjoy a show while he’s on the mortal plane.” Eliot’s wicked little smile promised a good time Quentin just couldn’t believe they’d be having if Crocella came out to play.

“Oh sure. I have a feeling Crocella will be out again before this is all over, but give him a minute. I’m going to bet that Living Mud isn’t something that’s just laying about.” Margo paused. “Reminds me of Living Clay. I wonder if we could’ve… done this ourselves?”

The Prince of the Mud surfaced, his beak filled with something. He crawled over to the pier and spit out what looked to be the most noxious of all mud. “Mud and clay are very different elements. I’ve seen it before, someone creates a golem, wants it to have a soul, but all those can do is drain life force. Mud, now… Mud is the stuff of life. And my special essence.”

“Whoa. What special essence?” Quentin didn’t like the sound of that. His experience with essence in Fillory was…

The turtle turned his massive head. “It’s what you think. Now, let’s get this formed up. Doesn’t need to be perfect. You seem to be pretty well manifested, so it should take to your form as you see it. Sometimes people even find they’re more attractive. Better endowed if that’s something you want.”

“Um.” Quentin was still stuck on the essence. He looked at Eliot in horror.

Eliot snerked and leaned into Quentin’s ear to whisper, “You don’t need any help downstairs, Q, unless you just want me to limp more, go back to using the cane.”

“No, I mean… the other thing. The essence.”

Margo pressed her lips together and averted her gaze. “Don’t cock out on us now, Q. It’s nothing El probably hasn’t done before.”

Quentin covered his face with his hand. His voice was high. “That’s a little different, Margo.”

When Eliot spoke, it sounded like he was suppressing a laugh. “Q, darling, my sweetest little boy, listen… I am the master of getting splooge out of things. Just take the hit real quick, and I’ll—POOF!—spell it away.”

As much as Quentin did believe that, and as much as he wanted Eliot’s comfort, he couldn’t shake the sensation that Eliot was, on some level, enjoying this a little too much.

Penny, on the other hand, smacked Quentin in the back of the head, a reassuringly normal occurrence. “Coldwater, let me make a thing clear to you. I’m either going back to the Underworld _with_ you, or you’re getting a body and staying here in Fillory with your dapper daddy issues and military coup. This is a simple equation: Mystical turtle cum or eternity elsewhere _today_.”

“But how do we even…? I mean, do I have to—” Quentin gestured wildly in ways he didn’t want to think about.

At that, the Prince of the Mud turned on him, looking as affronted as a turtle could. “Sir, I am a professional. Crocella will be more than sufficient. These are the building blocks of life. This is profound magic. Stand in awe.”

“And catch a load,” Margo said under her breath.

Quentin sighed wearily. And watched the Prince of the Mud work, his little arms flailing, his body having to turn as he shaped the mud. If Quentin had been in a better mood about what was about to go down, he might even find it funny.

After a few moments, the Prince of the Mud backed away.

It was, well, a pile of mud, roughly human-shaped, but with very little detail.

Aside from the short arms, the Prince couldn’t know the details of what Quentin looked like anyway, so he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

“Now, bring me my Crocella.”

“You’re gonna love this, Penny.” Margo kicked off her shoe and, with a few gestures, the giant Croc was slowly sinking into the bog in front of the Prince.

Undeterred, the Prince mounted it and began his loud wheezing. “You need to…stand…in the Living Mud.”

Quentin took a moment, nodding, resigned to this weird fate. He focused on the fact that he’d have a body, be a real boy. He could save Janet and could more fully be with Eliot, though…there was something to be said for how they were now. Other than… well, Penny could cart him away.

He had to concentrate a little on slipping into the Living Mud. He’d apparently been working so hard to manifest himself, he’d taken on more form than he’d thought

Unfortunately, his sense of smell started to come back. However, the Living Mud did block his view of what the Prince was doing, so at the least he wouldn’t have to watch it happen.

And then he waited.

And waited.

The wheezing didn’t get less horrible, and it felt like hours. He could picture Eliot watching in fascination, probably hugging Margo, both out of hope and perhaps a bit of arousal.

Then the sounds got louder and stronger. Quentin felt the world shift. Trembling, like an earthquake, only it was more of a bodyquake.

The Living Mud made horrifying sucking sounds, squelching, and then pressure all over his body. Or what was becoming his body. As if he was going to be squashed into a suit far too small for him.

He tried to take a breath, but he didn’t yet have lungs. Things unfolded inside him, organs building, bones shooting up through his flesh. It was incredibly painful, but he had no way to scream or make any kind of noise to signal his distress.

It felt like worms were in his head, swirling around, his nervous system coming online at what had to be the worst time. He was pulled and strained, feeling like one of those Stretch Armstrong toys, all in darkness.

Until it wasn’t dark.

Eyes. He had eyes!

His hands went up. He had hands!

He felt his eyelids, his lashes, the slope of his nose.

It was him. His body.

All back together.

He opened his eyes just in time to see a mass of goo flying his way.

“Son of a—”

 


	14. On My Way to Steal Yo Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin takes a nap. Margo and Josh fly on horses.

When Quentin got hit with the turtle splooge and fell to the ground in an apparently unconscious heap, Eliot sprang into immediate action. With a quick series of well-practiced tuts and a string of Aramaic, he spelled Quentin clean again as he’d promised to do. Seeing Q deluged in reptilian spermatozoa and knocked down under the force of the blast should’ve been funny—Penny laughed—but Eliot found he was too worried to see the humor he’d expected in it.

He repeated the spell on Quentin’s hair a few times before he realized it was clean; it had simply gone snow white, possibly from the stress of it all. He was still youthful-featured, still as handsome as ever, but his hair…

Well, it was a look, for certain. Eliot kind of liked it. He might’ve _really_ liked it if Quentin was alert and responsive.

As it was, he just lay on the pier looking a little more ripped than Eliot remembered—a nice touch—and a little more limp-inducing in the downstairs area, at least from a purely shower-vs-grower viewpoint. Hair aside, the Prince did good work.

Then Eliot realized he was gawping—ogling?—inappropriately and spelled Quentin’s Fillorian clothes onto his naked body, using the garments he’d chosen back in Applecart. It was a beautifully embroidered tone-on-tone black and charcoal laced tunic and wrap pants with soft, worked leather boots that made Quentin _look_ as if he’d once been a king of Fillory. Eliot’s dress-up dolly.

Of course, the dark colors made Q’s new hair color look all the starker, and his unconscious pallor all the more obvious. It was, on reflection, really kind of goth in a way that would no doubt do it for Eliot the moment Q was, well, not dead to the world. Although dead was also very goth, necrophilia was not—recent evidence to the contrary—El’s thing.

Breathing was happening, though. Healthy up-down chest rhythm, fluttering pulse in Q’s throat, flickering eye movement behind his delicate lids.

It wasn’t until Margo wrapped an arm around Eliot that he realized he was crying with relief. He clung to Margo for a moment, hiding his face in her hair, and then pulled away, steeling himself for Penny’s mockery.

Instead, surprisingly soft and somber, Penny murmured, “I’d have done the same for Kady.” He didn’t meet Eliot’s gaze.

“Let’s get him home.” Eliot knelt carefully and hefted Q over his shoulder like a sack of feed before rising and looking to Penny.

The Prince of the Mud called out, “You’re welcome,” in the world’s most pointed tone.

Eliot looked toward him and managed a strained smile. “Thanks. I mean, we did promise you someone’s immortal soul in exchange for this favor, so it’s kind of implied, but good work, big guy.”

“He’ll wake up soon. His magic is settling into his new meatsuit, slowly pervading the tissues. He’ll be made almost of pure magic when it’s done.” Penny reached out to touch Quentin briefly, clinically, and grunted. “Definitely reincarnated. Guess that heroic death paid off. He’s back as a higher being.”

“Wait, really?” Eliot knew what Stoppard had said and what he himself had sort of half-jokingly gone along with, but hearing Penny the Underworld Master say it…

“No, dumbass, not really. _Yes_ really.” Penny looked toward Margo and held out his hand. “Back to the Mosaic?”

“That’s all we need: superpowered dumbass.” Margo sounded snarky but she reached up to stroke Eliot’s cheek gently.

“How long is he going to be out?” she called to the Prince of the Mud.

“A couple of hours.”

“I guess that’s not so bad.” Margo took Penny’s hand, giving a nod.

“Or years,” the giant turtle said. “I always get those mixed up.”

“Sweet crossdressing Christ,” Eliot muttered under his breath. “Margo, you took back Lady Croc?”

Then, louder, he called, “See you soon!”

Penny snorted and placed his hand on Eliot’s back in what felt like a gesture both of support and imminent Travel.

There was a quick puff of magic before they found themselves at the cottage but outside the wards.

“Oh, right.” Margo held up her hands, adjusting her wards to allow in Penny and now the fully embodied Quentin. “Thank you, Penny.”

There was noise and many campfires built around the wards. A surprising number of FU fighters appeared to be left. The ones nearest where they’d appeared eyed them curiously.

Eliot lifted a hand in regal greeting and proceeded toward the cottage primly—or well, as primly as he could with a handsome unconscious man slung over his shoulder. He felt a little like a hunter bringing home the kill, except Quentin was very alive now, and Eliot had yet to prey upon this new flesh.

Hopefully Quentin woke up soon.

Josh came running out to meet them as they stepped closer to the cottage door, his expression one of welcome and then wonder as he took in Quentin’s form. “Holy shit, you gave him a makeover too!”

Penny lifted his chin in acknowledgment of Josh and said, “Like he didn’t need one.”

“Hey,” Eliot protested. “Quentin was perfect as he was. If he’s slightly more glamorous now, well… It’s befitting his new status.”

“As what?” Josh asked as he moved to Margo’s side and kissed her cheek.

“More than human, apparently.” Eliot looked to Penny, who shrugged.

Margo kissed Josh’s cheek back, then grabbed his chin and pulled him in for a more passionate kiss, which was strangely unfocused for her. “Mm, we’re gonna have to leave the bed to Q, but there’s still plenty of cottage left. Or… we could scandalize the FU fighters.”

She _had_ been extra flirty with Penny, but Eliot had chalked that up to Margo just being Margo. She did love banging, and she’d missed Josh, but this seemed to be getting out of hand.

Or maybe Eliot was just jealous because Quentin was still out and, well, was now more than human and who knew what that might mean?

Josh chuckled and wrapped an arm around Margo, looking pink-faced and pleased by her amorous attention. Penny rolled his eyes. Eliot politely refrained from joining him and instead headed inside and spread Quentin out on the bed, trying to get him comfortable.

The others followed.

“So how did it go?” Josh asked, though how he could attempt conversation with his hands roaming over Margo like that…

“Uh.” Eliot frowned and sat on the bed by Quentin’s hip. He looked away from all the PDA in favor of trying to find differences between Quentin v.1 and new Quentin 2.0. “Well, it was definitely gross, but it did the trick.”

“Gross?” Josh’s voice went suddenly high-pitched as Margo no doubt touched him in his no-no place.

Penny laughed. “Yeah, the giant turtle got this revolting mud from the bottom of the Marsh and made a sort of vaguely human-shaped body out of it and then just…shot a load all over it and made Quentin real. It was… I mean, I’ve seen some sick shit, but that was next level.”

“What?!” Josh extricated himself from Margo and hustled over to the bed, looking down at Quentin in apparent disbelief. “I think you got trolled by the Prince.”

Eliot furrowed his brow at Josh. “What do you _mean_ we ‘got trolled’?”

Stepping away from Eliot—likely a wise move—Josh made a fish face for a few moments before explaining quietly, “Alice 23 said he gave her the power to bring back her Quentin’s body. She said nothing about turtle jizz.”

A delighted cackle burst from Penny, who nearly doubled over laughing.

Margo ground against Josh. “The spell was probably going to run on jizz either way. Everything here does. At least I didn’t have to drink it.”

 “Anyway!” Josh continued backing away, returning his hands and his attention to Margo. “We’re going to just go into the woods and fornicate no— Wait." Shaking off the eternal siren song of the Margo, Josh blurted, “The FU fighters say Fen is alive!”

“Oh my god.” Eliot’s heart lifted in his chest like a helium balloon toward a ceiling fan. “She’s still alive?”

“Alive and hiding out in the Fairy Realm,” Josh confirmed, still seeming a little distracted as Margo nibbled on his ear. “So um. You know.”

That seemed to get even Margo’s attention. “Well shit. Q’s down for a couple of hours; why don’t we just whip by the Fairy Realm and pick her up? She could command the FU Fighters, and… you know… maybe stab some shit.”

Quentin wasn’t quite awake, but his hand found Eliot’s and took it weakly, so he apparently knew Eliot was there. That seemed like a sign he’d be up soon, and Eliot couldn’t just leave him.

Torn between duty to Fen and his duty to Quentin, he squeezed Q’s hand tighter and reached for his flask. “I don’t—”

Uncapping the flask with his teeth, Eliot took a few swigs of scotch and fought down an anxiety attack. “Q needs me here. If Fen’s been waiting three hundred years…” God, he was the world’s worst husband. “…she can wait a little longer to see me.”

“And on that note, I’m out.” Penny disappeared.

Margo frowned at Eliot, her disappointment in him writ large. Then her gaze moved to Quentin and her expression softened. “You should send some rabbits, let Julia know her BFF is alive again. Plus, she’ll know how to handle all this goddess shit. 23 can bring her. Kady, too. I don’t think she and Q had a particular thing, but we can use all the hands we can get. At least let Alice know if she doesn’t already.”

She moved to Eliot and cupped his face in her hands. “And if you don’t want Fen, would it be weird if I fucked her?”

Eliot blinked. Then he blinked again, peering into Margo’s eyes and searching for some kind of understanding. Usually he just intuited what Margo wanted or needed, but this…

“I certainly hope it would be weird.” Eliot smiled a little and sighed before tipping up his face and brushing his lips gently against Margo’s. Then he leaned back and huffed. “As much as I love her, I think we all know I’m not _in_ love with her. I’ve been a terrible husband to her. Maybe…”

Eliot looked between Margo and Josh, searching for some kind of discord. All he saw was Josh’s big, sweet, dumb face lit up with hope and surprise.

When he caught Eliot looking, he said, “We all kind of bonded when the Monster possessed you. Margo was running Fillory, and me and Fen were helping, and it just kind of… You know. It was an emotional time.”

He paused and added, “Also, I know this is lost on you, but Fen is a gorgeous girl.” At Margo’s look, Josh corrected, “W-woman. I mean, she’s a gorgeous woman, Eliot.”

“And brave, and loyal, and feisty, and…” Eliot trailed off, reflecting on her manifestation in his Happy Place. She mattered to him on a deeper level than he was ever going to be comfortable thinking about. He might not have returned her lust or craved her affection, but she’d given him so much. It still hurt his heart to think of their child, taken by the fairies, lost to them. The way Fen had carried around a fucking log like some Twin Peaks reject. The way she’d opened her heart to Fray so quickly and defended the girl so fiercely…

She deserved better, especially now Eliot and Quentin were together in Fillory. What could possibly be better than Margo?

“I’ll send the bunnies,” Eliot said finally, looking at Margo intently. “You go seduce my wife so she’ll forgive me for making her a side ho.”

“We’ll see what she wants. I know she wanted magic and…” Margo looked over her shoulder at Josh. “We do have a kind of magic that we can pass along. Does have one helluva catch to it, but that’s magic for you. I can make the offer. There’s lots of other things we can do either way.”

She waggled her brows at Eliot and then leaned in to kiss his forehead. “Just more proof I should’ve been High King from the jump.”

Margo gazed down at him and then turned to Josh. “Let’s go get my woman.”

 

~*~

 

A few steps outside the cottage and Margo realized she had no fucking clue where the goddamned Fairy Realm was. She put her hands on her hips and peered at the camping FU Fighters, bedding down for the night. The flock of terrified bunnies, who’d gotten a good lesson on who run the world courtesy of Margo, would not refuse her or anyone near her again.

The Prince of the Mud hadn’t followed them back, but that really had been quite a load he’d shot at Q, so she didn’t think he would be much help.

Her gaze rested on the pegasi who were placidly grazing. She approached them, smiling as their heads raised to acknowledge her.

“I need to get to the Fairy Realm. You guys wouldn’t happen to know how to get there, would you?”

“Of course we do.” The white stallion Margo had ridden before—Dapplerump—fluttered his wings a little, seeming to resettle and adjust them over his back. “The fairies may not need us for conveyance, but they are stimulating conversationalists. We sometimes visit to play games with their children, too. They have _amazing_ apples.”

Josh grinned and bumped his shoulder against Margo’s. “So we’ve got to make a sort of… I guess it’s a booty call-cum-rescue mission?” He looked between the pegasi and Margo for confirmation probably and then grinned wider. “It’s Fen. Former acting High King Fen?”

“Ahh,” the mare Josh had ridden said knowingly, seeming almost to smile. What was her name? Goryhoof? Gloryhoof? “And you wish to mate with her?”

“Margo does,” Josh answered almost too quickly. “I mean, I do also, but to a lesser… You know, I just go where Margo tells me to go. It’s really—It’s really Margo’s show. I’m just… I’m just here.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shut up abruptly.

Margo smirked, enjoying Josh’s discomfort. He was probably about ready to jizz his jeans at the prospect of two women. And, not for nothing, he was the Vagician. Since she figured Eliot probably did a dutiful if serviceable job, Fen deserved some real fun.

If she’d agree to it.

“I don’t let just any woman depose me. I also want to let her know her husband is here and that we’re taking back Fillory. I imagine the fairies will be happy to hear that. I assume their move back to the Realm has to do with fucking Plover. Think you can give me another ride, Dapplerump?” She gave him her best pout as she reached to stroke his snout lovingly.

Dapplerump bunted his head into her hand like a housecat and snuffled before flaring out his wings and stamping his hooves. She was gonna take that as a yes.

Josh held out his hand toward the mare, but she stayed where she was, apparently less taken with him. He reached into his pocket then and pulled out what looked like some kind of fruit pastry. “It’s a miniature tarte Tatin,” he explained before blowing on the little dessert to send the scent wafting toward his pegasus. “Caramelized apples drenched in browned butter and sugar. You _do_ like apples like Dapplerump, don’t you, Glory?”

With seeming reluctance, she dragged her hooves over to where Josh stood, extended her neck as far as she could, and lipped at the treat he held on a flattened palm. After a moment’s sniffing and tasting, she unfurled her tongue and pulled the tiny tarte into her mouth, chomping noisily. Josh shot Margo a triumphant look. “I did some baking while you were gone.”

“Well you have to share with the rest of the class. Can’t leave my Dapplerump out.” She reached out to pull Josh in for a quick kiss, then felt that weird, overwhelming lust that seemed to be coming…not out of nowhere. Margo loved sex, but she was starting to feel like the urges were taking over.

Leftover grief, probably.

Once Dapplerump had his treat, she hopped onto his back. “Let’s go find ourselves some fuckin’ fairies.”

 

~*~

 

The journey to the Fairy Realm took them first through the area of the northern orchards the fairies had terraformed during Eliot’s reign. While there were still fields of mushrooms that no doubt sat atop glowing fairy eggs, everything else seemed different. As they flew over, the atmosphere grew thick and humid, the evening taking on a brighter cast even as the shadows deepened. Above them, a gleaming castle appeared, ivory and gold and black, glistening in the moonlight.

“This has only been here since shortly after the Dark King came,” Dapplerump explained as he approached the ramparts. “The fairies gained a new Queen and enough power to build a new Fairy Realm after the destruction of their last. Their time of peace on the ground didn’t last.”

Margo knew she’d be able to see fairies because of her fairy eye. As they neared, she spotted the golden-haired, shadowy-eyed figures looking toward her curiously.

Josh, on the other hand… As they touched down in the courtyard, Josh looked around a little panicky. “I don’t see anything! Should I smoke? I should smoke.”

Right. The Fairy Realm would be invisible to him. This whole castle in the sky probably looked like empty air.

Gloryhoof tossed her mane and snorted as Josh produced a joint from his pocket and lit up.

Margo slipped off Dapplerump and gave his rump a playful smack. “Good man. Let me see if I can’t find you one of those good fairy apples while we’re out mingling.”

The fairies seemed surprised that they were there and kept a safe distance, leaving Margo to call out, “Hey. Assholes. I’m looking for Fen. I hear she’s up here somewhere.”

Murmurs and movement ran through those gathered, but no one approached or responded. Toward the back, someone dashed away and into the castle, hopefully carrying Margo’s message.

After a few moments, Josh dismounted and stood next to Margo. He shotgunned a puff of smoke into her mouth under the guise of a kiss and then grinned against her mouth before straightening and leaning against her. They just chilled and groped each other a little as they waited for someone to fucking do something.

Then unrest and interest rippled through the crowd as fairies stepped aside to clear a path. Coming out from the huge main doors of the castle was a tall, imperious fairy woman, probably the new queen. She looked right at Margo. Halfway across the courtyard, she paused, looked back, and made a gesture.

Beside Margo, Josh held his breath, clasping her hand tightly.

Then, from the shadows of the castle, a small, familiar figure emerged. Fen.

“You look good for three hundred.” Margo beamed at Fen who appeared more or less unchanged.

Holding her hand was a child. Small human. Chubby cheeks. Cleft chin. Dark, curly hair and probably no more than… seven? Margo wasn’t sure. “What is _that_?”

Who, she meant, but whatever.

“Margo!” Fen’s whole face lit up as she drew near. “Josh!” Her gaze flicked from one face to the other and then beyond them, to the two pegasi, and a shadow passed over her features. “This is Fennel. Is Eliot…”

She trailed off, probably assuming the worst. She’d already mourned him, Fillorian-style, but from the pinched corners of her eyes and the way she gathered the little girl against her side, it was obvious she was still feeling the loss.

Josh opened his mouth like he was going to say something but then looked to Margo and gestured, deferring to her.

“Listen, we both know he’s a star-spangled douche sometimes and…” Margo frowned; that wasn’t really fair. “He’s alive. He’s in Fillory. Just… taking care of Quentin. Now Quentin died…”

At Fen’s look of, well, it was apparent she didn’t know exactly how to feel about Quentin dying, but she settled on dismay.

“He got better. I mean, mostly better. He’s got a body now, so that’s an improvement.” This wasn’t going as well as Margo thought it might, if she’d spent much time worrying about it before she took off to find Fen. “We _just_ found out you were up here. So who is this, uh, Fennel?”

“So Eliot’s…alive?” Fen, as ever, focused on the positive. “And Quentin’s…alive now?” She smiled a little shyly and then steered the very Eliot-looking little girl in front of her skirt. “This is Eliot’s daughter. My daughter. Our daughter. Fennel. The Fairy Queen told us she was dead, but… Well, she lied. She lied often, and she lied well. But Fennel was just held in stasis by the Fairy Queen’s magic, and—”

Fen cut herself short and looked down at the little girl with an expression of such doting love it was hard not to remember her turning the same look on the log-baby she’d carried around for a while at her most post-partum psychotic. “Anyway, I’ve spent the last— Did you say three hundred years? Time moves differently in the Fairy Realm. We’ve been waiting _three hundred years?_ ”

“Wow. Um. Yeah. Three hundred. And um. Yeah, El’s…alive. And is he ever gonna be…surprised. Just…so surprised.” Josh was smiling and nodding, and his apparent chill was probably a result of the truly potent marijuana he was still puffing on. Then Josh bent down to look at Fennel from closer to her eye-level. “Heya, Fennel. I’m Josh Hoberman. I’m an old friend of the family. Pleasure to meet you, young lady. Er. Do you identify as a young lady? How old do you consider yourself to be?”

“Greetings, Josh Hoberman. I consider myself to be without age. I am not constrained by such concepts like ordinary humans.” Fennel didn’t smile, but there was a certain wicked light in her eye that marked her as very much Eliot’s offspring.

Fen giggled. “She’s _so_ precocious.”

“Oh, that’s great.” Margo wondered if this was going to trigger all sorts of unpleasantness about her trading away Fen and Eliot’s baby, but there seemed to be a happy ending. “Time moved differently for us, too. It’s really been… I don’t even know now. Under a week? We were just told you were deposed and ran for it three hundred years ago, so we figured… but then we found out, I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago and…”

Margo felt an unusual sensation of dread and something that made her eyes feel sore. She blinked a couple of times and then shrugged it off. Weird feeling. “And we hopped a couple of flying horses to ask if you wanted to come help us overthrow the usurper.”

“You mean you haven’t already done it?” Fen sounded excited as hell, not disappointed. “Of _course_ I want to help overthrow the usurper! Margo! You’re inviting me on an adventure!”

Fen slipped out from behind Fennel and ran at Margo, arms flung open. She tackled Margo in a snug embrace, clinging to her and laughing. She smelled like sunshine and ripe berries, her body fierce and almost vibrating with her enthusiasm. As Fen pulled back to look into Margo’s eyes, she exhaled softly.

“I missed you so much. If Eliot…couldn’t be here, then I’m glad it’s you.” She looked sideways to where Josh stood watching them. “And you too, Josh.” Fen held out her hand to him, and when he took it, Fen dragged him into the hug pile too.

“D’aww.” Josh wrapped his arms around both of them. He smelled like really, really good weed. “We just… We missed you too, Fen. As soon as Margo heard you were alive, she made a plan, and here we are. For adventures. It’s adventuring time.”

From the corner of her fairy eye, Margo spotted little Fennel strolling right past them, completely ignoring them, and proceeding toward the pegasi with her small hands full of apples.

“We need someone to command the FU Fighters and I was hoping High King Fen might consider it.” Margo sighed, happy now all snuggled against Fen and with Josh right there. It hurt a little that she was still so into Eliot, but what did she expect? It could take time. Fen was, well naïve and sweet and…

Margo leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Fen’s lips, feeling weirdly possessed again, though it wasn’t entirely just lust. “Anyway, yes. Adventure. Maybe some swashbuckling. Wanna come get swash buckled with me?”

“Yeah,” Fen answered quietly, looking at Margo with something new sparking behind her eyes. “I’d really like that.”

Josh leaned in to whisper in Fen’s ear as Fen gazed at Margo’s face, and her blue eyes got bigger, and bigger, and bigger. Fen gripped Margo’s waist, hand tightening slowly. Her lips parted, and her pupils dilated, and then Josh stood back and looked between them with a smirk. Margo didn’t need to hear it to know Josh was filling Fen’s head with ideas about what they could do tonight _without_ Eliot.

Licking her lips, Fen averted her gaze, cheeks blazing and ears pink where they poked through her long hair. “Um.” She glanced to where Fennel was cooing at the pegasi and feeding them chunks of apple from her little hands and then looked into Margo’s eyes again with fresh determination. “So Eliot’s not just with Quentin, he’s _with_ Quentin? And he…encouraged you to—”

Blushing harder, she glanced to Fennel again before mouthing, “seduce me?” Fractionally more audible she whispered, “He wouldn’t be upset? I mean… I… I was raised to… This was my whole life’s plan, to marry the High King and… Forever. It was going to be forever, but he just… And we don’t… And _I_ don’t… But I’d really _like_ to… You know?”

“He didn’t encourage me. You’re who I _wanted,_ and I consulted with him because he’s my best friend. If he were any other shitty husband in the world, I would’ve just swept you off your feet without a second thought to his feels.” Margo took Fen’s hand and kissed it softly, gazing at her. “You were raised to be married, but that was three hundred years and several regime changes ago. You, like me, are a motherfucking King, Fen. And anyone who doesn’t treat you like that… fuck ‘em. I love El, and I know he loves you, but fuck him, really. You are one badass, knife-wielding bitch, and you deserve the world.”

“But Josh—” Fen looked thunderstruck, her sweet face lined with confusion.

Josh slipped an arm around Margo and joined her in gazing at Fen. “I meant what I said. We _both_ find you very intriguing, and Eliot’s not going to cry. You’re so much more than the High King’s little wife.”

Fen looked like she might cry. Margo could smell the relief coming off her in waves, desire beneath that. Werewolf senses were kind of great, when you weren’t in the Northern Marsh.

“I—” Fen shook her head, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say.” A mischievous curve came into her smile. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, like, a lot.”

“I thought I got a vibe from you. Bare-breasted mourning. You could’ve just asked.” Margo grinned at her as she slid her hand gently down Fen’s spine. This was going better than even Margo thought it would. “But there is a wrinkle, and I hope you’ll be… It’s not something I’m casual about necessarily, but we do have sexually-transmitted lycanthropy. So, with us, you would be a werewolf. It is a way to impart magic, in a way. It’s got a… every 30-year commitment, but there are also a lot of benefits.”

She stroked Fen’s hair, twisting it lightly, knowing this could go awry, but she thought she knew Fen well enough to think she’d find it a great adventure, and that she’d enjoy learning to explore her new power. In some ways, Fen’s spirit reminded Margo of her own. She’d never had the opportunity to really spread her wings before she became King. Now that Fen had had a taste of power….

Indeed, as Fen chewed on her bottom lip and considered, Margo could see her working her way up from shy to excited. “Lycanthropy? You mean I’d—But then I couldn’t—”

She looked from Margo and Josh to Fennel and then whispered, “I did already give him a child. And he’s got Quentin. He’s _always_ wanted Quentin. Used to talk about him in his sleep.” Fen rolled her eyes fondly, still smiling. “And I… Well. Eliot has many excellent qualities, but he’s about ninety-nine percent gay, and that one percent is for you, Margo.”

True to effervescent, irrepressible form, Fen just accepted that. She also seemed to accept without overly questioning it that Margo and Josh wanted her. Their time ruling Fillory as a trio _had_ been challenging and fulfilling, hadn’t it? They’d bonded, with Eliot gone, with Margo’s vulnerabilities on display.

Glancing again to Fennel, Fen called out, “Dapplerump, Gloryhoof, will you play with Fennel until we’re ready to go?”

The pegasi whickered. Dapplerump appeared to wink at them. “We’ll go for a ride.”

“Fennel, will you be okay if I go inside with my friends for a while?”

Fennel turned her disconcertingly Eliot-y face toward them and shrugged. With a regal flick of her hand, she said, “You play with your friends. I’ll play with mine.”

“ _So_ precocious,” Fen murmured, sounding proud. Then she took Margo by the hand and pulled her along past the Fairy Queen and her court with a spring in her step and a little smirk.

Josh caught hold of Margo’s other hand and trailed after them, ever obliging.

 

~*~

 

Quentin opened his eyes to find Eliot’s head on his chest and an unruly number of rabbits in the cottage.

He felt… Well, he felt great, actually. Practically vibrating with power.

As much as he wanted to wake Eliot, they’d really had some long nights, and he wanted him to get as much sleep as he could.

Unfortunately, Quentin’s stomach made a loud protest at its emptiness, which caused Eliot to stir.

Quentin ran his fingers over the back of Eliot’s neck, then leaned down to kiss his nape.

As he moved, white hair fluttered into his face. He grabbed it and pulled it forward. Oh shit. They didn’t tell the Prince how old to make him… Was he old now?

“Mm,” Eliot moaned as he stretched, rubbing his long body against Quentin’s. “Good morning, baby.” He lifted his head slowly and smiled at Quentin, expression sleepy and adoring. “You hungry? How do you feel?”

“Am I old?” Quentin held his hair up at Eliot, trusting that he’d probably say something like that it was just Q’s turn to be Daddy now or whatever even if he was, but also feeling great anxiety about how long he’d be alive in this body.

“No, you’re goth, and trust me, while you were a very attractive old man, you are an _incendiary_ goth boy. Just smoking. Also, check out your dong. I told you not to go up a size, but you’re chonk.” Eliot seemed sincerely gleeful about the whole situation, grinning like an idiot as he leaned in to nuzzle Quentin and brush their lips together.

“What? Um…” Quentin kissed Eliot back, enjoying the feel of a real body and reveling in Eliot’s admiration. His stomach growled again, which was embarrassing, but well, that’s what having a body was all about. “I didn’t intend to go up a size. I thought it was fine, but…”

Quentin slid his hand down, feeling it hardening. “That’s more than up _one_ size. What in the… I have abs?”

“Mm I know. You don’t need to _keep_ them, though. I liked you the way you were.” Eliot practically purred as he slid his hand down Quentin’s chest to caress him. “You’ve always been just perfect.”

“Guess my subconscious was feeling overcompensate-y.” Quentin felt vaguely embarrassed by it all. “I don’t have turtle sperm breath, do I?”

“What? No!” Eliot laughed, a shocky little gasping chuckle, and then went in for another kiss. This time he swept his tongue past Quentin’s lips, licking out his mouth boldly, purposefully, as if to prove the job he’d done cleaning him up.

Then, finally pulling away, Eliot headed over to the tiny kitchen. “I’ll make peach pancakes if you just get naked and let me look at you. It’s _almost_ like having a whole new boyfriend.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful, and as he took down the mixing bowl added, “Oh, and Fen’s alive. Margo and Josh have gone to seduce her.”

“There’s news every guy likes to hear when they’re getting undressed. ‘Wife’s alive but someone else is going to seduce her.’” Quentin sat up, surprised at how few aches and pains he had. Minor mending? He thought it was more for objects and less for people, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Quentin stripped down, doing a playful little dance, while he also ran his hands over his new body. “I really gave myself the whole men’s health magazine makeover, didn’t I?” He held his naked, well-muscled leg out, pointing his toe like a cheesecake girl. “Good to know my imagination didn’t skip leg day.”

“Mm,” Eliot acknowledged, smiling as he measured flour into the bowl. “You look _delectable_ , and as soon as you’ve eaten, I’m going to eat you up.”

For a moment Eliot was quiet and then he explained, “Margo thought I should go get Fen myself, but I didn’t want to leave you when you might need me. She was…not impressed. But I chose you, Quentin, and I know it makes me the world’s worst husband, but Fen and I… We’re not ever going to have what I had with you, Q. What I’m hoping to have with you again. If you…”

Eliot shook his head and stared into the mixing bowl, wooden spoon in one hand. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I know I want to be with you when it comes.” His gaze flicked up to meet and hold Quentin’s, big brown doe eyes earnest and pleading. “I know I play things off every chance I get, but I… I’m serious, this time.”

Quentin stepped in behind Eliot and wrapped his arms around his waist. He felt a little guilty, but it wasn’t as if Fen and Eliot had married for love. He wasn’t a total homewrecker, right? Even though it greatly pained Eliot, Quentin was a little relieved there weren’t kids involved with that. “I want to be with you. I want to eat your pancakes and your ass. Not at the same time, though.”

“So you say.” Eliot turned then in Quentin’s arms and rubbed a stripe of flour across Quentin’s face. His somber expression twitched a little as Eliot tried not to laugh. Then he leaned in and kissed Quentin again before muttering, “Let me finish these pancakes. I’m way too horny to be teased this way by a sexy naked goth virgin.”

Before Quentin could process that, Eliot grinned and waggled his brows. “Brand new untouched body, and it’s mine to despoil. Muahaha. Just you wait. But first…” He held up the bowl, turned back to the counter, and resumed measuring ingredients.

“The original hadn’t been touched all that much. I mean, comparatively. Sort of.” Quentin really had gotten a lot more action once he got into Brakebills. “Guess you’re going to have to go slow and listen to my whining all over again.”

He turned, looked down at his dick, and shook his head. “That fucking turtle.”

“I know,” Eliot replied without even looking. “I’m gonna be whining too.”


	15. Leveling Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q levels up. El levels up. Queliot levels up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is a short chapter (but also a "long chapter") because my life hates me and this is all me & Char could get to you today. Tomorrow there will be more, I promise. Leave me a nice comment, okay? I could use the encouragement. ♥ We love all of you so much. Thank you for sticking with us chapter after chapter.

After a delicious breakfast spent feeding Q little bites of peachy pancakes with whipped cream, Eliot was in a really good mood. Q was alive, he was naked, and he kept making cute little noises when Eliot forked tasty bites into his mouth. His senses seemed sharper now too; he picked up the Fillorian ginger and nutmeg right away. The old Q would’ve just guessed cinnamon and left it at that.

Eliot enjoyed this more erudite Quentin. It meshed nicely with El’s own rarefied tastes. He’d never minded that Q wasn’t quite so particular, his palate less developed, but it was sort of thrilling to discover Quentin 2.0 appreciated the finer things.

What else was more sensitive now, more appreciative? Appraising, Eliot eyed the impressive manhood resting between Q’s newly ripped thighs.

“You still hungry, baby?” Eliot crooned, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his hand as he admired his boyfriend in the morning light pouring through the window.

He liked to think of Q that way. His baby, his boyfriend. His someone. His…whatever they were becoming, now they both knew forever was on the table. It still gave Eliot a moment of panic deep in his gut, but he desperately wanted Quentin to keep pressing, to keep asking for more. It was so much easier to yield to Quentin than to be bold on his own account.

“Not for pancakes.” Quentin nuzzled Eliot’s face and wrapped his arms around his neck. “I actually feel really good. Kind of buzzing with energy. Like I could conquer that castle all by myself.”

Instead of that, though, Quentin kissed Eliot deeply. He’d sneaked a few kisses between bites, but it seemed like he was more determined this time. More than just being sweet, or trying out tastes. With his expanded palate, he also appeared to have enhanced enjoyment of the barest of touches.

Grinning, Eliot returned the kiss, licking the sugary, fruity flavor from Quentin’s lips. He slipped from his chair to straddle Quentin’s lap, laughing a little at their height difference and the way this position emphasized it. Apparently the Prince hadn’t seen the point in making Q any taller. Eliot was glad; he liked his cute lil pocket sized Q.

The cock stirring against Eliot’s ass, on the other hand, was anything but pocket sized.

“Mm we should take your new tool for a test drive,” Eliot whispered, rolling his hips a little to tease Quentin as he combed his fingers through Q’s soft white hair. Both touches elicited gasps, making Eliot smile wider. “You’re so sensitive now. I just want to overwhelm you until you cry with pleasure.” He raised his eyebrow. “You think I could?”

“You’ve done it before.” Quentin leaned in and nipped Eliot’s lower lip.

Oh yes, their orgasm denial phase. That had been a good one.

Quentin looked at the wall of the shack. Thin, and they could hear the Fillorians outside. Could the FU Fighters could hear them too? With the wards and all...

The stiffness against Eliot’s body made it obvious Q could be easily persuaded regardless.

“I’m a little worried if all my blood goes to my dick that I might pass out.” Quentin smirked. “I mean, it’s not quite Equisapien, but I’m worried I’ll wind up anemic.”

“Oh shut up. Do you want to compare dicks?” Eliot laughed and stood to undress, turning his back to Quentin and looking over his shoulder as he bared one shoulder and then the other, playing with his moody boy. As Eliot stripped slowly, he pushed his ass at Quentin’s face, his leer an open challenge.

“I don’t.” Quentin turned the chair sideways and looped one arm over the back of it to stabilize himself.

Then, braced, Quentin grabbed Eliot’s ass, his grip firmer than it used to be, manhandling abilities amplified. Sure, Eliot had loved his waif, and Q was still pretty wiry, but there was unmistakable strength behind his movements as he parted Eliot’s cheeks.

Quentin leaned in and swirled his tongue over Eliot’s opening, giving him a tease at first. Q’s scruff burned pleasantly as Quentin ate Eliot’s ass, keeping him locked in place as Q’s mouth worked, tonguing and nipping all around Eliot’s opening. Eliot squirmed and gripped the table for balance, mouth wide and gasping as his toes curled.

“Oh my god, Q.” It was all he could do to breathe through the bliss. Usually Eliot was too bossy to hold still and be spoiled, but if he was going to take Q’s monster dick, he’d need a little help relaxing.

Shifting his weight, Eliot spread his long legs wider, bringing his ass down to a more accessible level—not that Q seemed to have any trouble keeping him where he wanted him. Those strong hands were the stuff of fantasy, and while Eliot didn’t care about the abs, he hoped Quentin’s grip stayed just that powerful.

As Quentin lavished Eliot’s hole with attention, Eliot kicked away what was left of his clothing and struggled to stay upright. His fingers tightened on the table and he moaned, his opening flinching and flexing under Q’s soft, wet tongue. It was fucking filthy and shameless doing this by the goddamn window in the middle of the day with a hundred FU Fighters doing drills just outside the wards, and Eliot was _thriving_. This was like a day at the spa: pure, lush, pampered indulgence.

“You know, if you’re more than human now, Q, this is a fucking great start. You should just be the god of my ass. I’ll make it available to you anytime, anywhere.” Eliot’s voice hitched, a little too high, and he laughed at himself as he squirmed against Quentin’s fierce grip. “Were you always this good, or is this an upgrade too? Is your tongue longer? I _knew_ the Prince liked me.”

“He did want to eat you. I just get to actually do it.” Quentin nuzzled Eliot’s opening with his nose, a strange sensation, but also so fucking thrilling. “Come to the bed and sit on my face.”

Quentin gave Eliot’s ass cheek a sharp slap, leaving behind a sexy sting, and Eliot wondered if it wasn’t so much the actual strength as that Q actually seemed to be really feeling himself.

Q got up and sat on the bed, then lay back. If anything, it put them even _closer_ to a window. Eliot laughed and reached for the glass of wine he’d been enjoying with their breakfast. He drank it at a leisurely pace, watching Q, admiring him, and then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand like a heathen and prowled over to join him.

He looked so cute laying there, white hair spread out across the pillow, big sad eyes looking happy for once, crinkled at the corners. Eliot leaned in to kiss him passionately, growling against Q’s lips with a surge of possessive joy, and then climbed onto the bed and straddled Q’s chest facing his feet.

Shifting slowly, deliberately, Eliot inched backward until his ass cheeks spread against Q’s face, and then he sighed in pleasure when Q gripped his hips again and pushed his mouth up to meet Eliot partway. God, that was good.

Eliot reached for Q’s cock then, undulating over Q’s tongue and soft lips and scratchy scruff as he stroked him from root to tip and then leaned over to tongue Q’s slit. It was a handful now, and Eliot had big hands. _Nice_.

“I’m going to suck your godly cock until you’re begging to be inside me,” Eliot murmured consideringly. “It won’t be easy—this Q 2.0 beefy meat situation is real—but luckily for you, I am an experienced cocksucker and will not be deterred.”

Quentin spit on Eliot’s hole and started to finger him gently, teasing. “You sure you won’t be the one begging me? Get your mouth around it, think about being deep in your ass, splitting you open.”

He pulled Eliot’s ass to his face, now teasing with fingers and tongue, withholding a little until Eliot indeed ground his ass onto Quentin’s face. He knew exactly where to touch, how to move, when to withdraw and make Eliot chase him.

It was good he was taking preparing Eliot seriously, because while Quentin’s dick had never been small, now it really was a solid unit and Eliot was a little out of practice.

“So sassy, Mr. Coldwater. I like this new you.” Eliot purred and sucked Quentin’s cock into his mouth, stuffing it into his cheek and bobbing his head slowly as he pushed back into Quentin’s fingering. This was an all-new dynamic for them, at least as young men. Quentin being confident, Quentin talking dirty, Quentin being…just absofuckinglutely dreamy.

It was fucking with Eliot, knowing Quentin could fucking well be a god now, someone superhuman, someone beyond Eliot’s reach—out of his league. His awkward, waify Quentin had been a pet project, someone dorky and cute Eliot could seduce and mold and train, but this…

Rubbing his soft beard against Quentin’s shaft, Eliot said, “You came back for me. You stayed for me.” It was only to reassure himself, to restore his balance and his ego. “I just…. Q. Q, I… If you’re gonna ascend or something, I want to…”

Eliot trailed off, uncertain where to go from there. The feelings swelling in his chest were overwhelming—insecurity, passion, selfless devotion, selfish desire—and he couldn’t give them voice, not with Quentin distracting him so beautifully, fingertips rubbing against Eliot’s prostate until his cock twitched and it was all he could do not to smother Quentin in his eagerness to get those nimble fingers a little deeper.

The thought formed in his hindbrain, usually the source of all fear, and maybe fear propelled it now too, but a different kind of fear. Pulling away from Quentin, Eliot cast about for his wits and then settled onto the floor on one knee as gracefully as he could manage, all too aware of his cock jutting out in front of him and his ass clenching around nothing. He waited for Quentin to sit up and look at him and then pulled off one of his rings and held it up.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Quentin. I don’t know where this is going, or what’s going to happen to us. But whatever happens, I want you to know… I’m choosing you. I want to be with you always. If you can, if you will, marry me?”

That sly look turned into something more familiar: troubled, a little overwhelmed. Quentin’s eyes grew red as he sniffed, looking at Eliot and then at the ring. “Are you sure?”

He looked close to crying. Happy, but also a little nervous, as if he wasn’t sure this wouldn’t be followed up with Eliot running away. “Because I choose you. I always will choose you. I want to have a life with you that isn’t part of a quest but is part of _our_ quest. I want to have vacations and brunches and friends over. I want to grow old with you again, but this time without the worry that you’re just there because we have to be.”

Heart pounding, Eliot reached for Quentin’s left hand, looking into his eyes. “I’m sure, Q. If I wasn’t, would I be down on one knee doing this whole traditional proposal thing? I’m barely even drunk. Now tell Daddy yes so he can put this ring on your finger and ride your dick.”

It was so obvious that Eliot’s earlier rebuff had caused Quentin to manage his expectations. He’d barely mentioned marriage since. Still such a _sensitive_ boy.

Quentin held up his hand to let Eliot put the ring on him. “Yes. I think we should bring the Coldwater-Waughs back. Teach the Fillorians what a fucking hyphenate is.” Despite the cursing, Quentin’s eyes were full and glossy. He laughed a little, his awkward tic when he was overwhelmed or surprised.

“Motherfucking Coldwater-Waughs in the cottage. Represent,” Eliot intoned regally as he slipped the ring onto Quentin’s finger and then surged upward to kiss him and knock him back onto the bed. He straddled Quentin’s hips and reached back to stroke his cock a few times before working the lubrication spell quickly and expertly. Then he positioned Quentin’s tip just right and pressed back against it, sinking slowly onto its thickness.

About an inch in, Eliot paused, winced, and whispered, “Fuck. That’s…” Widening his eyes, he smirked at Q and then took him in a little deeper, rocking his hips and squirming as he pushed onto him. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh my god, I’m not ready, but I’m also completely ready, and I swear to god I have never been happier in my whole gay life.”

Shivering, Quentin squinted at Eliot as if he wanted to see him but was too blissed out to keep his eyes open. “Just… feel so much right now. It’s all swirling in me. Just this… I don’t know what it is, El. Love. Gratitude… optimism. God, you feel so good. So perfect. All around me.”

Quentin gasped, grabbing Eliot by the waist as he lifted his hips. Quentin’s need was overwhelming. To ground himself, Eliot breathed in Q’s boyish soapy scent, but he could still taste his desire, rich like dark chocolate, almost bitter. Sweet too. Quentin’s love, his absolute trust.

Eliot thought of Quentin’s commitment, his loyalty. He’d come back to see Eliot one last time, even though he’d had to escape death to do it.

As Eliot sank onto Quentin, it felt as if he was sinking _into_ Quentin. Like they were merging, like Quentin had opened himself completely and Eliot was just falling into the center of him, awash in the gentle power at his core. It thrummed under Eliot’s skin now as he rode Quentin, different from anything he’d ever felt before.

Meeting Q’s thrusts, Eliot reached for his left hand again and brought it to his lips, kissing the ring that had been his, that was Quentin’s now, imbued with Eliot’s pledge of love. It wasn’t magic—except that it was, magic of the heart, a different kind of magic, more essential, instinctive.

Their bodies moved in perfect unison, rising, falling, shifting, pulsing, and Eliot’s breath came faster and faster as the sweat broke out on his skin. Everywhere their bodies touched, Eliot felt the glow of heat and connection, and he sprawled out on top of Quentin to get closer, kissing him hungrily and basking in the outpouring of Q’s lust.

“I’m gonna marry you,” Eliot promised, both somber and overjoyed. He kissed the promise into Q’s temple and then his jaw. “I love you, and I’m gonna marry you, and I’ll be Mr. Coldwater, and you’ll be Mr. Waugh, and we’ll just belong together.”

Quentin whimpered soft and sweet, like the words were too much for him, and his arms wound tight around Eliot’s back, clinging to him as he fucked harder into Eliot, that huge cock of his spearing deep into his body and making him gasp. It felt fucking amazing. It hurt, but it hurt _good_ , this intense, satisfying stretch, and Eliot had long ago quit caring as much about dicks as he did about the persons wielding them, at least in any long-term sense, but this was just too much. El’s heart was as full as the rest of him, and he panted for breath that seemed chased from his lips with every solid thrust.

“Q,” he whispered, over and over, like a prayer. “Q, Q, Q, Q…”

Closing his eyes, Eliot tipped back his head and arched his spine, his body rolling like waves over Quentin’s smaller frame. He moved on him like the tide, steady and natural, controlled by the gravity between them, this palpable force that bound them. On instinct, Eliot reached for that cord of soul magic between them to nurture it, feeding the power of their sex into it, focusing on it until he could taste the coppery tang of Q’s heart’s blood, the real true meaty pumping force of it, vibrantly alive.

“Mine and mine and mine and mine,” Eliot chanted, tracing glittering runes into Q’s forehead as Q clung to him and battered into Eliot’s sore, surrendered body. El’s cock throbbed as it rubbed against Quentin’s abs, and _there_ was a good use for them—the ridges were just the perfect friction, and Eliot could hardly think between one thing and another, the sheer fucking _goodness_ so sharp, so acute, it was painful.

Pure sensation, pure emotion, stripped of pretense and jest, whittled down to this core of heat and light, the intertwining of their souls after a lifetime together—after, El realized with dawning awe, more than one life together.

As his awareness twinned with Quentin’s, the time magic enveloped him too, and he saw forty timelines. He saw Quentin loving Julia, Quentin loving Alice, and, more than once, Quentin loving Eliot before the Beast ended everyone. The Mosaic loop hadn’t been their only lifetime together, and this…

This _was_ who they were, given a choice. This had been who they were again, and again, as real as Quentin’s puppy love for Julia, as real as his first love for Alice. Real because El was Q’s true love as surely as Q was El’s. Reciprocal, replicable…

Replicable. A scientific fact. More than proof of concept.

Lost in the flood of Q’s consciousness, the lifetimes cut short, the one perfect lifetime that lasted seventy-three years, Eliot clenched around Quentin and rocked faster onto him, taking it all, needing all of it, every inch, every iota. Quentin was beyond speech, his lips parted on soft, exultant sounds as his slitted eyes glowed violet behind the thick fringe of his lashes.

Quentin clung, arms stronger than they’d ever been, and Eliot had never been more grateful to be held tight, to be held down, because it felt like he was going to blow through the ceiling. Had he ever been so fucking high?

It felt like floating, anchored by Q’s hands on the small of his shifting back, by Q’s body inside his own, and without Q there, Eliot would just dissipate into a thousand thousand motes of golden dust dancing in the sunbeams pouring through the window.

Then Quentin gasped Eliot’s name, soft, reverent, and arched up into him impossibly, lifting El from the bed and making him groan and reach for his own cock as Quentin trembled beneath him. Eliot thought he knew what it would be like, but this…

Power flowed into him like nothing he’d ever felt, stronger than the Fountain, than pure magic, and Eliot wailed in shocked pleasure as everything inside him lit up like a world-record Christmas tree. He came helplessly, barely touching himself, barely needing to, and the power spilling into him rolled through him and from him, a dizzying pulse of force that blew out the walls. It reduced the thatched roof to golden straw raining down around them, catching in their hair, drifting over their bodies like gentle touches.

They didn’t stop, though, couldn’t, and Eliot clenched around Quentin’s twitching cock greedily, milking every drop from him, taking it all into himself and riding him like his life depended on it. It was beyond… Just beyond… Just…

Eliot’s thoughts faltered as another ripple of climax tore through him, and he whined with it, wrung out and aching, awe-struck and lost. Quentin soothed him, hands roaming over Eliot’s body possessively, taking his measure, comforting and claiming. They heaved and undulated until the last swell of pleasure swamped them and they collapsed together side by side on the bed.

Dazed and drunk on bliss and power, Eliot closed his eyes and flung his forearm across them to block out the light as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Um. Hi, guys.”

Groaning, Eliot propped himself on his elbow as Quentin did the same. Where the door used to be before Eliot flattened it with a juiced-up telekinetic blast, Julia stood with her arms awkwardly folded across her chest, a funny little smile on her face, and her gaze averted. Behind her stood Penny 23 and Kady, both of whom looked way more amused than she did. Penny raised his hand in a little wave. Kady just smirked.

“One moment, Jules.” Quentin cleared his throat and described shapes in the air with his fingers. Within seconds, the cottage’s flattened plank walls, fallen thatch, and blown-out windows and door reassembled themselves better than ever. The paint looked brand new. The splintered furniture recollected itself as something wholly new and far more luxurious. In fact, the whole cottage looked much bigger on the inside than it had been on the outside.

Eliot grinned at him. “ _Major_ mending. Daddy likes it.”

Outside the door, Julia called, “I’m about to knock. Put on some damn clothes, Q.” A pause. “You too, El.”

Unable to help himself, Eliot fell back against the pillow and laughed, clutching at Quentin and kissing him until they were both giddy and wild-eyed. When the laughter subsided, Quentin stared at his hands and then looked around the cottage, seeming as awed as Eliot felt.

“I think… um. I think I leveled up.”


	16. Getting the Band Back Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Julia's here. Q gets jealous because he thought he was the only one who got to call Eliot daddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a cover graphic back in Chapter 1, have a peek!

One minute, Julia was looking at a clearing with a bunch of Fillorians camping, wondering where Quentin might be. The next, cottage parts were flying at her, as well as a broken ward. As if a magical bomb had exploded, leaving Quentin and Eliot stuck together in their middles looking euphoric and then a bit more chastened.

Seeing Quentin naked was strange. Not only did she not remember him being in that kind of shape, but he was… endowed. Things she didn’t want to think about with someone she regarded almost as a brother.

And while she was so happy that he was alive and apparently doing so well, she wondered now about that pain of losing him. Would her magic be taken away again?

At the moment, it didn’t seem so.

She’d felt a pulse, a deep fusion with Fillory that she wasn’t willing to chalk up entirely to opium in the air, though that didn’t hurt her outlook on life. But there was something different. Like the trees were whispering about her.

And Fillorians whispered about “Our Lady of the Tree.”

She was at a loss for what to tell them. She was just a regular woman now. Regular magic woman, but she wasn’t an Our Lady of anything.

Still, what was done was done, and she went on with life, haunted by the words of Our Lady Underground saying the only mistake she could make in choosing to be a human or a goddess was her not making the choice at all.

And she hadn’t.

She was honestly torn about Penny. It wasn’t a decision he was proud of, and she got that. But sometimes, when she and Kady were working spells together, when Julia couldn’t accomplish what had been so easy for so long, it was hard not to lash out at Penny.

But mostly, she just acknowledged her frustration and went on.  It wasn’t his fault, not really. She’d had time to make her choice before and just hadn’t. Not that she’d known there would be a time limit.

What she’d thought was that she would wait and that there would come a time or a situation that would make the choice obvious. She supposed the crossroads were clearly marked for Penny. He just didn’t want to lose his girlfriend. His reason was not unlike what had been holding her back; she didn’t want to lose herself.

But in that mad moment, with rustic timber and hay flying at her, along with the wafting of the broken ward and the shockwaves of telekinetic energy flowing through her, she had a reminder of what all that power had felt like. She couldn’t help it.

She wanted it.

Then Q just rebuilt the house as if it was nothing. The ease with which he did it radiated down to her bones.

Kady and Penny appeared concerned that Julia was annoyed at catching Q fucking Eliot.

That was the absolute last thing that bothered her. She wasn’t angry. She was…jealous?

Quentin returned to the door, hair white and mostly in black. She mussed his hair a little. “Get old before your time, huh?”

“Yeah, they say that stress can do that to your hair, and apparently dying and reincarnating are stressful.” Quentin grinned, and she grinned back.

They threw their arms around each other and Julia sobbed once, softly, because she had never thought she could hug him again.

“I can’t believe you’re back.”

“I can barely believe it myself.”

Julia hugged him tighter. “You’re so powerful.”

“Stoppard said I had god-like powers but didn’t exactly say I was a god. But the time magic I had is god-level, I think?” He looked sheepish, as if he worried she’d be angry with him.

“Maybe Fillory is grooming you to be its new god.” She felt sick with envy at saying that, but also very proud of Quentin. Had it been anyone else, she could’ve just been angry.

But it was Quentin. Her Quentin.

Quentin didn’t look as pleased as she might’ve guessed. Instead, he put out his left hand to show off that he was wearing one of Eliot’s rings. “We’re engaged.”

“That’s wonderful!” _Is that allowed?_

She took his hand to admire his ring as if she’d never seen it. This brought her back to where she’d started. Penny pressed for more from her, especially now that she wasn’t a goddess. And Kady, well, her feelings for and appreciation of Kady helped her cope with the rest of it.

Best bitches.

Sadly, Kady and Penny kept an icy distance between them. It was too painful for Kady to want and too awkward for Penny not to be who she actually wanted.

But none of this mattered. Not really. Not when she had Q back.

“I hear we’re storming a castle?” She arched an eyebrow at Quentin, who nodded.

“There’s a Dark King. You’re not going to believe it, but it’s Plover.” Quentin scanned her expression.

Their connection to Fillory went back into their childhood. The idea of Plover not only ruining Martin Chatwin’s life and perverting the books of Fillory, but now actively trying to ruin Fillory itself, enraged her.

It caused a spark in her belly, one that warmed and tingled all through her body. “When are we going in?”

Quentin eyed Eliot as if he wasn’t sure what to say, but then shrugged and turned back to Julia. “We’re waiting for Margo and Josh to return with Fen; then we can make a plan.”

Julia nodded grimly. “I’ll do what I can, but my magic is… coming back, but it’s soft. Most of the spells I know I don’t have enough juice for.”

“Oh.” Quentin turned and looked to Eliot. “Still got that flask from the Fountain?”

“Oh. Yeah!” Eliot reached into his embroidered purple tunic that made him look like a tall, queer Ren Faire wet dream and produced two flasks. He uncapped one, sniffed it, and drank deeply. “Mm that’s just good scotch.”

Then he opened the other, and a blue glow emanated from its opening. He held it out to Julia. “Drink up, Julia. Pure, fresh magic direct from the Fountain in Blackspire.”

“Oh. Um, should I wait until there’s a plan?” She took it, trying not to look overly eager. Even holding it, she could feel the power emanating. Fresh and perfect. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end having it so close.

Quentin watched her, and she was reminded that no matter how different he looked or what they’d both been through in this long and winding road, he could read her so well. She hated that pitying look on his face almost as much as his concern. There had been a time when Julia was willing to sacrifice anything and everything for more power.

And she’d gotten it, in the ugliest of all possible ways.

Julia hesitated, then handed it back unsampled to Eliot. “I think I need to learn to work with what I’ve got for now. But thank you.”

Eliot recapped it with a dubious look and stashed it back inside his tunic. Penny gave Julia a knowing look, as if he suspected she was torn.

Just as he opened his mouth, Kady said, “Jules, you were a hedge for a long time. You’ve got this. You know how to make a lot from a little. Just gotta find your groove again.”

Kady stepped up beside her and tossed her long curls over her shoulder, looking ready to square up and fight for Julia’s honor.

“Saving it for go-time isn’t the worst idea,” Eliot conceded.

“Right. So we’re waiting for Margo, Josh, and Fen, and then we storm the castle?” Penny looked around at the Fillorians watching them with open interest. “I’m guessing this is your army?”

“Well, Fen’s army,” Eliot clarified, smiling a little. “She was a very popular acting High King among her countrypersons.”

Julia put her hand on Quentin’s bicep, finding a lot more bicep than she ever remembered, but chose not to comment on that. He smiled and gave her a quick half-hug.

“Can’t imagine what’s taking them so long.” Quentin rolled his eyes like he knew exactly what would be taking them so long, and given what Julia had walked in on Eliot and Q doing… Her cheeks warmed.

“Oh. With Fen, too? With the…” Julia held her fingers up at her head to resemble dog ears.

Quentin shrugged. “Seems so. But, um, we’re on a time limit so… my great great, great, whatever granddaughter is set to marry Todd on her birthday at midnight and I’m not inclined to wait too much longer.”

Julia nodded, then felt a strange surge of energy that made her a little lightheaded. “Wow, I forgot about the air here.”

Kady and Penny helped to steady her. “Q, your what?”

Quentin put his arm around Eliot as he explained the Mosaic and their lifetime here. As she listened to it unfold, she couldn’t help but smile. Suddenly the engagement made a lot more sense.

“And before I telekinetically leveled the cottage, I was experiencing Q’s forty timelines through, um, I guess my careless and habitual use of sex magic. It turns out we were together for more than a couple of them, before the Beast got us.” Eliot smiled, leaned against Quentin, and then added in a confessional undertone, “Of course, the timelines where we hooked up at Brakebills ended in tragedy when I kept Q too busy to stop the Beast in a timely manner, so there’s that.

“But,” he added emphatically, “We’re fucking great together.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say it always worked out better in the timelines with Alice…” Penny’s quiet voice cut through the strained levity. “In mine, she ended up surviving long enough to resurrect Quentin minus his shade, he became the Beast, and then he killed her. So.” Penny shrugged. “And in twenty-three, Eliot… You were a real fuck-up. Quentin’s fate sent you to the bottom of a bottle. It’s good this time around you held it together.”

Eliot mimed a flourishing bow, expression sardonic. “We learn and grow.”

Quentin winced, probably feeling bad about things he didn’t even do. “Alice stopped by early on in this. She looks good. Very librarian.”

Julia and Kady shared a look and shrugged. “Yeah, she seems all right. For someone who tried to do away with magic for all of us.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Quentin wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone, though.

Julia really didn’t want to have that fight, and she was sure Quentin didn’t particularly want to defend her, so she let the subject drop.

“Wait, you saw all 40 timelines? In Q? So he’s… Is he…” She held up her hands, making symbols. Her fingers sparked but zapped her back. Not quite enough juice to do that. If she’d had her goddess powers, she could easily feel what was radiating off Quentin. “Do you remember all forty?”

“Some of them. Sort of. I think. They’re not as vivid, but they’re there. I couldn’t tell you one from the other. I do remember the Beast one, but I wouldn’t have known which it was.” Quentin took Eliot’s hand. His other arm wrapped around himself as if worried.

Julia wanted to comfort him, but she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant either. She didn’t remember any of her timelines aside from the one she was in. Sometimes she wished she knew what she’d seen in Penny in timeline twenty-three. “Might be why you have so much power.”

Quentin looked up, but before he could say anything, a flying horse landed just a few feet from them.

“What up, bitches? Are we getting the band back together?” Margo slid off the back of a pegasus, then turned to help Fen down.

Josh touched down a moment later, looking rumpled and unmistakably lust-dazed. He waved to everyone and then dismounted sloppily from his Pegasus carrying a little girl with dark, curly hair and hazel eyes. They hastened to Margo and Fen’s sides as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from them. Then, awkwardly, the pegasus he’d been riding trotted closer to Julia, tossing her head and eyeing her before going down on its front knees.

“Our Lady of the Tree.” The pegasus bowed her head. “I am Gloryhoof. Please accept my obeisance.”

“Oh! Well, I’m not… I mean, that’s not me… anymore.” Julia felt a jolt in her belly, a hard tug of wistfulness. She determinedly did _not_ look at Penny, because him feeling bad wouldn’t make her feel any better. “But I am honored to meet you, Gloryhoof. I’m just Julia now. Being Julia is good.”

She looked up to find Quentin wasn’t even paying attention. He and Eliot were staring hard at the child in Josh’s arms.

 

~*~

 

“Holy shit.” Eliot looked at Fen, halfway to embracing her when Josh’s mount touched down. And that kid… “Is that… Fen, is that our…”

“Yeah, this time it’s definitely our baby.” Fen beamed at him and held out her arms to take the child from Josh, who immediately glued himself to Margo. The little girl wrapped her small arms around Fen’s neck and her little legs around Fen’s waist, clinging and giving Eliot a big-eyed examination.

Poleaxed, Eliot blinked and stared right back, mind blank. He mapped their features to the child’s, seeing Fen’s bone structure, his own cleft chin, his hair, Fen’s roundness. “Well hi there, our baby,” he managed after a bemused pause.

“Fennel,” the child asserted, sounding remarkably confident. She pulled one hand free of Fen and offered it to Eliot to shake.

Knees weak, he accepted her hand and gave it two firm pumps before drawing it to his lips and kissing its back. With a shaky breath, he murmured, “I’m Eliot. It’s my very great pleasure to finally meet you, Fennel.”

Fennel. Honestly, Fen? Fen and El. Fennel.

Still better than Coldwawa.

He released her hand and then reached for Fen, dragging them both into his embrace. Fen hugged him back with a happy little sound, though Eliot could tell she was crying already.

“So,” Fennel said, voice muffled by the hugging, “Should I call you Eliot or Father?”

“Eliot,” he said just as Fen said, “Father.”

Fen looked at him plaintively, and Eliot huffed and met Fennel’s inquisitive gaze. “Eliot for now. We’ll work up to the rest when you know me better.”

“That is a reasonable plan.” Fennel sounded like she approved and even offered Eliot a tentative smile.

Then Fen was stepping away and looking past Eliot, one hand coming up in a friendly little wave. “Hi, Quentin. I’m happy you’re not dead.”

A few feet away, Penny 23 threw both hands in the air. “This is some next level shit.”

Quentin looked stunned, like he’d been slapped and wasn’t sure how to respond. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, his right hand on his left where he was toying with the ring that Eliot had given him. “Yeah. Um. Likewise. And um, hello, Fennel. That’s good. Yeah, Fen and El for Eliot.”

You could make him over and give him abs, but there was no making Quentin anything but Quentin.

“Calm your balls, Coldwater. She’s not going to steal your man. Fen’s one of us now.” Margo scooted closer to Fen, putting a claiming arm around her. “Julia, Kady, not dead Penny, glad you could join us.”

“Ah, my little werewolf wife,” Eliot said wryly, giving Fen a look part pleased and part regretful. He could never make right how he’d disregarded her or taken her for granted, but arranged marriage hadn’t exactly been his life plan at the outset. He reached out to caress Fen’s cheek and then looked to Margo, raising a brow. “You missed our engagement, Bambi. I’m making an honest man of Q.”

Fen’s mouth made a little O. Josh blurted, “Congratufuckinglations!”

Eliot stepped back and slipped his arm around Quentin, dragging him in until their hips bumped.

“Thanks, Hoberman,” he replied drily, groping Q’s waist a little. His gaze moved to Margo, searching. He craved her approval, her happiness for him.

“It’s about time you nutted up.” Margo released Josh and Fen to give Eliot a hug, holding him tight for a moment. “Can’t believe we’re having real, grown-up relationships now. If we survive deposing the Dark King, we may even be functioning adults.”

Julia had moved to Quentin’s side and was rubbing his shoulder like she was backing him up, trying to be there as support, though she seemed to be having a hard time escaping the horsey attentions of Gloryhoof. “Speaking of, the rabbits said that we have a wedding to stop?”

Quentin nodded, looking momentarily lost, and then his brow furrowed determinedly. “Yeah, yeah, right. We need to, um. Fen can organize the FU fighters. Probably just need them for general chaos, I guess. And, um…”

It looked like he was explaining his plan to Fennel; he seemed to be having a hard time moving his gaze from her.

“Excuse us,” Eliot said, injecting himself smoothly into the pause. He took Q by the hand and tugged him back into the cottage, closing the door behind them. Then he pushed Q up against the wooden planks and kissed him hard, nipping at his bottom lip and growling against his mouth, wanting nothing more than for Quentin to realize nothing had changed.

Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot, kissing him back, clinging hard.

“She looks… so much like you. She’s so…” Quentin looked into Eliot’s eyes. “Cute.”

“Cute?” Eliot echoed, smiling a little. “Am I ‘cute’, Q? I always thought I was debonair and sexy and you were the cutie, but I’ll take it.” He cupped Q’s chin and met his gaze. “I’m going to marry you, Quentin. I don’t know when or how it’ll work out, but it will. In case you missed it, Fen’s a werewolf now, and I have no interest in acquiring sexually-transmitted lycanthropy, so her pass to ride this ride is permanently revoked. Fennel will, I am certain, be the most loved child in Fillory, but not because Mommy and Daddy are together.”

“I’m sure at her age you were cute. She looks so much like you.” Quentin pressed his forehead to Eliot’s. “And we haven’t talked about it, like, at all… but we’re going to rescue Janet and do what with her? I want to… I’d like her to stay with us, but I didn’t discuss it. We just got engaged and… I mean, it may be immaterial if we don’t get it together and actually _rescue_ Janet, but I want to raise a family with you, and do you want that?”

“Oh, Q.” Of course that’s what had Quentin so neurotic. Eliot melted and kissed him again, just a sweet brush of his lips against Q’s, and then he whispered, “They’ll be like sisters. We’ll raise them together. Janet-Margo Coldwawa and Fennel Waugh, princesses of Fillory or something. I don’t know how the royal situation is going to work out, but they’ll be _treated_ like princesses no matter what.”

Drawing back a little and holding Quentin’s gaze, Eliot smiled. “It takes a village, you know. They’ll need Aunt Margo and Uncle Josh, and Julia and Penny and Kady and…honestly, everyone. All of us. Like Margo said, we’re getting the band back together. But we raised Teddy just the two of us for most of his life, and he turned out…fucking amazing, Q. We’ve got this. I _want_ this.”

He reflected for a moment and then admitted, “When I found out Fen was pregnant, I just… I wasn’t ready. Well I know I was the fool who played it cool by making his world a little colder. But that’s changed. I’ve grown up. And I’ve got you.”

Quentin relaxed, then pulled Elliot in for another deep kiss. “Just tell me I’m not a homewrecker and then we can come up with a plan to kill Plover.”

Before Eliot could respond, someone started pounding on the door.

“Fuckers, get out here. We’ve got a real situation with this timey wimey bullshit.”

Margo.

“Bambi, chill, what—” Eliot opened the door and found himself face to face with his best friend…and her furry little problem. Her canine teeth were _huge_. She smelled like wet dog.

Oh _Bambi_.

“Wow, that’s… That’s a look.” Swallowing hard, Eliot pushed Quentin behind him, just in case, and forced a smile. “Who’s a pretty girl?”


	17. How Julia Got Her Groove Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia meets an old friend. Margo takes control.

Quentin peered past Eliot. “Wait, does that mean Josh…?”

That was a good point, but Josh was just standing behind Margo looking uncomfortable.

“No, because we fucked Fen, but I guess technically he fucked her first for whatever that counts for or means. Like, what the fuck is with the patriarchy in this need to penetrate? It could’ve just as easily been me. It should’ve been me, but it shouldn’t even be now because _it hasn’t been thirty years!”_

The last part came out in a growl, and Eliot and Quentin flinched.

Josh and Fen held Margo back, united in their goal of controlling her temper.

Quentin stepped forward around Eliot, dodging his protective arm. “Hang on. I’m a time lord. Maybe I can…”

He put his hand on Margo’s shoulder. She turned her head, straining to bite him, but Quentin looked determinedly at her, forcing energy into her, focused on turning back the effects of lycanthropy, until her face returned to normal.

“I don’t think that’s going to hold for long. Let’s get to the castle.”

“Whoa, Q, what…” Josh looked stunned as he eyed Margo and then Quentin.

“He’s a god now, basically.” Eliot sounded so blasé about it, but Quentin knew he was secretly proud. And maybe a little scared.

_“Quentin?”_ Kady and Penny said in matching tones of disbelief. They looked at each other briefly and then looked away, awkward with each other as ever.

“Yes Quentin.” Eliot’s tone verged on smug now. “He’s all juiced up with time magic, apparently. God-level time magic, according to Stoppard. Who is also here. And a prisoner in the castle. So we should probably get going so we can rescue him and get more information.”

He lifted his hand to Quentin’s nape, massaging gently, and leaned over to press a kiss to Margo’s now-smooth forehead. “Shall we get a move on?”

Quentin didn’t know what to say about being a god. It was all kind of embarrassing, and it was hard not to notice Julia avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, we should—”

From the forest, Quentin saw a giant turtle head. “I’m not too late to storm the castle, am I?”

“Right on time, actually.” Quentin shoved Eliot behind him, just in case, but then scanned the crowd of Fillorians who appeared to be readying themselves.

Margo stepped in. “Prince, I want you to carry the FU Fighters to the castle. No snacking on the way.”

Kady and Penny stared in awe at the Prince, seeming to take in the scope of him only as he shifted his massive bulk to the edge of the clearing. They flanked Julia and each took one of her hands. Quentin didn’t have time to wonder what was going on there.

“So Prince, I thought I’d float an idea past you…” Josh sounded self-deprecating as usual, but he stood tall at Margo’s side. “What would you think about a special treat made just for you? Something to slake your appetite until the battle is joined?”

Knowing Josh, it would be a magical treat that advanced Margo’s stated goal of the Prince not eating Eliot or anyone else.

Off to one side, Fen knelt by Fennel—who really just looked _way_ too much like a tiny girly Eliot, and it was never going to not fuck with Quentin—and watched, one arm curled around the child. Quentin wondered if they’d all be so impressed with the giant turtle if they, too, had seen him going to town on Margo’s embiggened Croc.

As if reading Quentin’s mind, Eliot pressed against him from behind and wrapped his arms around Quentin’s waist. He tucked his chin against Quentin’s shoulder and kissed his jaw. “Relax, Q. No way do we let Plover win this time. Just keep protecting me from Prince Eatsalot, and we’ve got this.”

The Prince of the Mud lifted his head, then turned it so he could bring his eye level to Josh. “I am intrigued.”

He didn’t seem quite as interested in eating Josh as he had been Eliot, which Quentin just attributed to surprisingly good taste for a turtle. But then he saw flashes of white, beings emerging from the clouds. They had unsettlingly beady black eyes and odd sullen faces.

“Are those… fairies?”

They floated down to congregate around Julia, who appeared to be having another dizzy spell. He knew that she’d helped them before, but could she see them now? It didn’t appear that she was aware of them, even as they bowed.

Eliot tightened his grip on Quentin and whispered, “You see them?” He probably had some lingering fairy trauma, all things considered. But if he was seeing them too, then they were definitely there, and for some reason Quentin could perceive them.

Josh didn’t seem to notice, chatting away with the Prince about something he planned to make for him even as Fen, Fennel, and Margo clearly noticed the fairies’ arrival. Kady and Penny were so focused on Julia they didn’t even look up.

“Yeah. What are they doing?” It looked kind of like they were praying or paying homage.

Julia started to glow. As she did, she seemed to regain her footing and shook her head as if trying to clear it. Then she appeared to notice and greet the fairies.

Quentin eyed Eliot for a long moment, exchanging a puzzled, curious glance. When he turned back to look at Julia, the largest of the fairies stood before him.

“We would like to join your fight for Fillory. The Dark King drove us back to the Fairy Realm. We would like to reclaim our stake.”

“Sure.” Quentin stared up at her, dazed and a little surprised. He knew they could be tricky, but a peace had been negotiated. “I thought the Fairy Key is what powered the Fairy Realm. What did you use this time?”

She gave him a faint smile, as if she thought he might be joking.

Quentin frowned. “Seriously.”

“The key was returned to us once you had used it. Changed. A new magic powering an old key. We owe our existence to the Lady of the Tree.” The Fairy Queen gestured to Julia.

“The keys went back to where they were hidden?” Quentin looked to the middle of the Mosaic. The Time Key rose from its center as a crowd of fairies herded Julia to it.

“Yes. For another time, another season. Where did you think the magic went?”

“I didn’t.” Quentin rubbed his face with his hand, trying to take in this information. The Time Key. His forty shades of Quentin. “Did the Monster go back to Blackspire?”

“No. Last we heard of him he was thrown into the Seam. By you.” She stared down at Quentin, and he felt like she was judging him for his ignorance.

“Where did _that_ magic go?”

“A bit here, a bit there. Some back into you, since you’d cast that spell in the mirror realm.”

“Like when Voldemort tried to kill Harry Potter but the magic ricocheted?”

“I do not know this Harry Potter. Or your Voldemort. Is he one of yours?” The Fairy Queen peered in the direction of the Fillorians.

“Doesn’t matter.” Quentin’s cheeks were hot. “What’s happening to Julia?”

The Fairy Queen gestured to the air. “The goddess has returned to her home world. She is recharging her magic from her keys so that she may ascend.”

“What?” Quentin looked at Eliot, eyes wide. “She’s going to be a goddess again?”

“She is a goddess if and when she chooses. It is to her whim.” The Fairy Queen looked down at Quentin as if he was simple. “The choice always rests with her.”

“But she… Penny… the Binder…” Quentin gestured, mostly to Eliot; the Fairy Queen would have no clue what he was on about.

“I know nothing about this Binder or your Penny. Only the goddess of Fillory.”

“Wait, goddess of Fillory? Like… _the_ goddess of Fillory? Like replacing Ember and Umber goddess of Fillory?” Eliot sounded profoundly impressed and, comfortingly, truly happy for Julia. “Wow. I’ve got friends in some high places.”

As the fairies clamored around Julia, Kady and Penny fought their way through the tumult, their expressions twinned in panic and determination. They couldn’t see the fairies, but nor could they reach Julia.

“Jules!” Kady shouted, trying to reach her and prepping some major magic if the lightning crackling from her fingers was any indication.

Penny grabbed Kady and Traveled with her the few meters to where Julia stood at the center of the Mosaic, depositing them both dead in front of her and displacing the fairies who strove to be nearer to their apparent goddess.

“Tell me you’re okay,” Penny demanded.

“I feel great.” Julia did indeed look blissful as she stretched out her arms and threw back her head.

 

~*~

 

The sky was bluer, clouds puffier, and Julia remembered that buzzing feeling, the first time she really touched god powers. Only this time there was no fear, only familiarity. It was _her_ power flowing in, the power she’d sacrificed to make the keys. They were here in Fillory, restored to their places, and now _she_ was here, and like called to like.

Shouting and whispers came from below, Quentin’s voice loudest of all, telling everyone to calm down.

From the bag she’d had wrapped around her came the book she’d kept—the book she’d spitefully kept intact. _She_ hadn’t made a choice. _Penny_ had made a choice. Julia’s promise—to her mind—only bound her to destroy the book once _she_ had chosen.

The Binder’s book slid free and opened itself before her. He clambered out, looking slightly disgruntled, but also as if he was on the verge of snickering. “’You didn’t keep your promise,’ he said.”

_Great. Narrating himself like a giant douche again._

She tilted her head in his direction. “I didn’t make a decision.”

“The Binder felt betrayed, but he didn’t let on. ‘Your indecision was a decision.’”

“Oh, fuck you.” Julia gloried in the chance to say it, to reclaim her own narrative.

“The Binder laughed and silently agreed that this was an appropriate response. ‘Now that you have sampled life as a human again, have you made a decision?’”

“I’m just… my people. I love them, and…” Julia looked down at Kady, her beautiful face, her sparkling blue eyes and wavy hair. And Penny, with whom she was starting to create memories. Real memories, in this timeline. Someone who had been Kady’s. Every stolen moment with him felt like a betrayal.

“’And you think those petty concerns are worth having when compared to being a goddess?’ the Binder snapped, impatient with the foolishness of the female heart.”

Julia’s temper flared. “Your sexism doesn’t help. It didn’t help Penny, or me, or any of us.”

“The Binder stared impassively at her. ‘This realm needs a goddess. It would be less responsibility than answering to the gods to whom you were previously accountable. The Monster saw to their dismissal, and your friend killed the god of this land. Bacchus served and then was disemboweled. But if you do not want this responsibility, we can call upon the demigod, Quentin.’”

“Quentin?” Julia looked down at him. The wind picked up, streaming Julia’s hair around her face. He glowed, too, though his power was lesser.

Q would make a great god of Fillory, but where would that leave him and Eliot?

“The Binder sighed and shook his head, never having found power so difficult to bestow upon humans. _Millennials,_ he thought, but aloud, he said, ‘What is your choice?’”

“I could be goddess of Fillory? Just Fillory? What about—”

Interrupting her, the Binder said, “The Binder rolled his eyes. ‘Make them a priest and priestess, and they can stay with you.’”

“And Quentin is a demigod?”

“’He is still the spark. You have endured the trials and are the flame. He could ascend, should he grow, but he was not chosen as you were,’ the Binder said wearily, tired of all of this exposition.”

Julia could see the magic flowing through Quentin, _her_ magic through the recharged Time Key and his own magic from all forty timelines, magic granted by Eliot’s passion and the Underworld’s mordant grace, bound together by the Prince of the Mud’s energy. A patchwork of entities had conspired to bring him this far.

But _she_ was the rightful heir to Fillory. Even if Q had slain its god, that act had caused only chaos. He wasn’t the chosen. She was.

Julia steadied her gaze on the Binder. “I accept.”

“’Fucking finally,’ he said as he stretched out his hands toward her.’”

This must be how a Niffin felt flaming out. She didn’t scream, though; she masochistically enjoyed every particle in her being suffused with divine fire.

Then with a sudden pull and a hard jolt, the scene changed abruptly. Looking around, she found herself in Castle Blackspire facing the Fountain.

 

~*~

 

“What in the actual _shit_ is going on right now?” Margo stared at where Julia had just been. “She went all Dark Phoenix, floating in the air, glowy, talking to a book. Did she get godded again? And then what? Somewhere else to be?”

Quentin stood with Penny and Kady, looking at the sky, expressions worried. Even the Prince of the Mud looked bemused. Fen shrugged it off, assessed the situation, and looked to Margo, the only one she could count on to act in the moment.

“I think it’s a safe bet Julia’s reinvested with powers. She’s on our side, so that’s great.” Fen’s gaze flicked to Eliot, who appeared torn between comforting Quentin and falling in next to Margo. Fen saved him the trouble of divided loyalties by marching up to Margo herself, tugging Fennel and Josh along with her.

“Before all…that…happened, Quentin said we needed to get to Whitespire. Your…” Fen gestured at her own face with an open hand to indicate wolfyness. “It’s going to come back. You should be on the battlefield when it does.”

Then Fen turned on Josh. “Get the Prince’s treat made. We can’t have him eating FU Fighters.”

Josh looked momentarily startled to be getting orders from Fen, but she was using her Mommy Voice, and when she pointed at the cottage door, he obeyed. He really was an obliging fellow, as she had learned last night. Not only was he an excellent chef, he could use both hands completely independently, and, well, it was pretty amazing to have the sex with a guy who was definitely thinking of Fen while he was inside her.

She smiled fondly at Josh’s retreating back for a moment before looking down at Fennel and grasping her shoulders. “You stay with the Fairy Queen. Mommy needs to lead the FU Fighters into battle against the Dark King so we can reclaim our rightful place at Whitespire and drive out the evil infecting our homeland.”

“That’s not much of a speech.” Fennel pouted and crossed her arms over her tiny chest, looking so much like Eliot that it hurt, just a little. Fen looked in his direction and found him with his arm around Quentin, obviously talking him down from whatever neurotic upset he was spiraling through at the moment. Kady and Penny appeared to be relying on him too; if there was anything Eliot could do, it was use his mouth.

_Not like Margo did though._

A little shiver ran up Fen’s spine, and she pointedly ignored the pulsing between her thighs. _Mm._ Fen had honestly never realized she could feel like that. It had been great with Eliot, at least, when it happened, but she hadn’t exactly had a broad basis of comparison, and well…

_Hehe._

Blushing, Fen nudged Fennel toward the Fairy Queen and then refocused on Margo. “What do you need to get our forces moving? You’re my High King. I’ll follow you. My army is at your command.” She curtsied, more saucy than deferential, and looked up at Margo through lowered lashes.

“See if we can’t rig something up to get the FU Fighters riding on the Prince of the Mud. May be that a few more of the large magical animals are going to show up, possibly even the Cozy Horse. Quentin will cry if he can’t ride it, but we’ll deal with that later. We need Fillorians keeping the guards busy so we can crash this damn wedding.” Margo hustled while she spoke, delegating duties where she could. “You know the castle and Fillorians better than I do, so just get them where they need to be. Oh, and make sure the FU Fighters are singing _My Hero_. The Prince really loves that song.”

Margo stopped, took a quick look around, and then leaned in to kiss Fen, pulling her close, pressing them together, her hand on Fen’s back. Fen melted against Margo, gasping against her soft lips and going weak in the knees. Her lady parts throbbed, and she trembled under Margo’s attention, memories of last night rushing back in a blistering wave.

When Margo ended the kiss, Fen clung to her and tried to catch her breath. Seeming relatively unaffected, Margo carried on.

“I’m going to ask Gloryhoof if she has any more horsey friends who can fly us in. Be easier for you to keep an eye on your troops from above.” Margo released Fen and headed toward the other magicians. “You, you, and you, stop crying over Julia. She’s a goddess now; she’s fine. I think our best plan is to have Penny Travel us in there. Some quiet part, maybe the dungeons where your friend is… What’s his name? Stoptime?”

“Stoppard,” Quentin supplied.

 “Whatever. We can hide out down there until we hear the troops gathering outside and then run up and crash this fucking party.”

“Ooh, High King Bambi, now you’re talking.” Eliot radiated pride in Margo, gazing at her with unmistakable love, and it filled Fen with affection for him all over again. Maybe she and Eliot hadn’t been drawn together by mutual attraction, but he was an amazing man, and she couldn’t help loving him.

Maybe, after this was through, Eliot would help her raise Fennel. The fairies had been wonderful to them, but Fennel needed a dad. Maybe two dads, Fen thought, looking at how Quentin leaned against Eliot.

Maybe three, she revised, thinking of Josh. _Mm Josh._ Not as handsome as Eliot, or as tall, or regal, or… But infinitely more attentive, inventive, and committed.

Clearing her throat, Fen brought her thoughts back to the moment. “I’ll general the vanguard for High King Margo. The FU Fighters will engage the Dark King’s minions and draw focus. They’ll never suspect you coming up from the dungeons. That gets the magicians where they’re needed—directly attacking the magical opposition.”

Eliot added, “Once Q frees Stoppard, he’ll be on our side. And Todd will do what he can to protect Janet-Margo Coldwawa until we come for them.”

He seemed very sure of that. Fen was a little less certain—nothing ever seemed to work out so easily—but she nodded to him and smiled a little. “Good work with the reconnaissance and recruitment of allies,” she acknowledged, sharing the little smile to Quentin too. “It may make all the difference.”

The Fairy Queen interjected then. “What would you have us do?”

What Fen would _like_ them to do was hang back and take care of Fennel, but she suspected that would not go over well.

Margo eyed them, kind of literally since she had the fairy eye and all. The mental calculations she was doing appeared all too obvious. “I don’t want you too close to magicians or anyone who might…grab you.”

Fen remembered with a shudder how the Earth magicians had killed and ground up fairies. Not to mention the slavery.

Margo looked up and around, then toward Whitespire. “Most can’t see you, so back us up. Majority on FU Fighters; jump in if they get cornered. Three with us. Stay behind us, keep an eye out, and if you can nab Janet, the bride, do it. We need her out of the way as soon as possible. And keep Fennel in the Fairy Realm. That’s where I’d like you to take Janet if you get her. It’s the most secure location in Fillory right now.”

She peered at the people surrounding her, smirked briefly at Eliot, and grinned at Fen and Josh. “Numbers should be on our side. You get injured, tap out. If any of you are related to the guards or they’re friends, try and talk them out of this regime change. I don’t want any more blood loss than is absolutely necessary.”

Margo’s breath turned unsteady, apparently at the thought of blood.

Quentin ran in and put his hands on her shoulders again, whispering something, and Margo seemed to recover before she said, “And for fuck’s sake, stay clear of my fangs.”

Fen decided it would be best to distract everyone from Margo’s imminent werewolfing. “And on that note, I need some magicians to help me with the harnesses for the Prince. I’ve got a lot of feisty FU Fighters to hang off that giant turtle. Hop to!”

They had this, right? Totally had this.


	18. Have Fun Storming the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You really thought it was gonna be that easy?

Quentin, the Magicians, the FU Fighters, and even the fairies crafted carrier harnesses for the Prince of the Mud. When the Cozy Horse arrived, Quentin insisted on at least a short ride—childhood fantasies demanded fulfilment—but then set to working on more harnesses. As it turned out, the fairies had a talent for the knotwork. Quentin mostly went behind everyone and worked his minor mending on each harness just to make sure that they were all standardized and secure.

He tried to dilate time—even an extra hour or two would help—but either he didn’t have the juice or Stoppard kept time flowing at a regular rate. Could’ve been both. Either way, they’d gone after bigger and badder with far fewer reinforcements.

Eliot had said it was just good politics to give people something to do; they’d be more likely to support the new regime if they’d been part of bringing on the change.

That Eliot, he wasn’t just pretty.

As the sun set, Eliot raised the harnesses onto the giant animals while Quentin made last-minute adjustments for comfort until they were ready for the Fillorians to mount. He had to stop what he was doing twice to keep Margo from wolfing out. At least he had that much time-control ability, and no one seemed to be contradicting it.

Josh had somehow managed to create not just a special Prince of the Mud treat, but something for the Cozy Horse, more apple treats for the flurry of pegasi who arrived, dainty cloud cakes for the fairies, and a hearty stew for the Fillorians and magicians. At least no one was going to die on an empty stomach.

Keeping busy kept his mind off Julia, and it seemed to be working for Penny and Kady as well. If she’d leveled up again, well, at least they’d said goodbye the previous time. But he had a feeling, a _strong_ feeling, that she wasn’t far.

He could sense her almost as well as he could sense Eliot, which made sense if he’d been affected by the Time Key, since she’d remade it.

Once it seemed like the FU Fighters were loading onto the creatures in an orderly fashion and Fen had them under control, Quentin gathered Eliot, Josh, Penny, Margo, and Kady together.

“We ready to do this?”

“Are you sure we can’t get juiced up one last time?” Eliot deadpanned, his expression suggesting he knew the answer but just wanted to embarrass Quentin and force everyone present to think about the sex they’d been having that morning.

“Gross.” Penny pulled a face, and Eliot laughed at him as if pleased Penny took the bait.

“I think he trolled you,” Kady whispered, making Penny grimace and mutter, “Y’all need me. Shut up.”

Then, to Eliot, Penny added, “Have some dignity, man.”

“Why,” Eliot asked, sugar-sweet, “would I want dignity when I can get high on the spunk of an extremely cute demigod?”

Penny screwed his eyes shut as if trapped picturing that. “Jesus.”

“No, not that one.” Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hand and leaned over to kiss his temple, the picture of complacent satisfaction.

“We do have the flask if anyone seriously feels like they need a boost.” Quentin eyed Margo. “Except you. I don’t know what that will do.”

“I don’t need it anyway, Coldwater.” She rolled her eyes. “But if I do wolf out… follow my lead, I guess.”

Quentin nodded. He tried to put on a brave face, but he honestly wasn’t sure what they would be facing. Probably not Beast-level powers, not unless Plover somehow got to the fountain, but then, Quentin really didn’t know. “Guess if we really fuck up, Stoppard can rewind us or something.”

“Great speech.” Margo clapped her hands as if she were a Speaker of the House after a president bungled an address. “We’re going to go in there, fuck shit up, and get my goddamn crown back. Penny, let’s do this shit.”

“Fuckin’ a.” Penny rolled his eyes, shot Quentin a dirty look, and then held out his hands to connect them all. Moments later, they appeared in the dungeons of Whitespire.

Quentin had just long enough to register what a mistake that was before what looked like motherfucking zombies overran them. Margo wolfed out immediately and started tearing into…everything. Quentin had never seen anything like it, but he didn’t have time to watch because a zombie grabbed Eliot way faster than Quentin could process, and then they were fighting for his life.

“Use your blade!” Eliot shouted, reminding Quentin he had a fairy-forged crystal dagger at his belt. Not that Quentin really knew how to fight with it, but—

Margo tackled the zombie attacking Eliot before Quentin could even act, ripping its head off with her massive chompers. It fell down dead, and Margo ran on.

“Take off their heads! That works!” Josh called as he tried to keep up with Margo.

Eliot put his back to Quentin’s and held up his own dagger, muttering, “How did this even happen? How is _this_ our life?” as more zombies ran at them.

The sounds of battle magic erupted from the other magicians’ lips as they tried to get off their tuts before the zombies could bite them, but it seemed like a losing proposition. The things were _quick_. Kady and Penny ended up back to back like Eliot and Quentin. Kady wielded her dagger with staggering competence, stabbing an attacker through the spine, severing it at the base of its skull. The zombie dropped, and Kady crowed.

“Standard zombie protocol!”

“But with daggers?” How did they miss that there were a bunch of weird-ass, purple-blooded, White Walker-looking people in the castle? Where were they even from? Fillory didn’t have _zombies_ in the books. Not with gnashing yellow fangs like cats and…

Oh my god, what if Westeros was real too and somewhere in the Neitherlands there could be—

Quentin stabbed one in the eye, which seemed to be the easiest way to get at the brain-ish, at least from the front and with stubby knives. Why didn’t the fairies give them swords?

And where in the _fuck_ were the fairies? Weren’t they supposed to have three?

Everything was moving way too fast in a cramped space for Quentin to use magic, and even if he did, what was he going to do? Mend someone to death?

“El, can you blast them back? Give us a fucking second?” Quentin stared wildly around, then stabbed another zombie thing in the neck and tilted the blade back, thankful now for the bit of extra weight and muscle.

And then he remembered, wasn’t he supposed to be a time lord? Or have some kind of magic?

Kady screamed, and Quentin turned to see her holding her arm. Her mouth started foaming.

“Penny, get her out of here!” Quentin shouted. He had a brainwave as they vanished. He slashed the palm of his hand with his dagger and clamped his hand over Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot made a soft, abortive sound of reflexive protest, swallowed, and then glowed bright, light erupting from his eyes and nearly blinding Quentin before a huge gust of energy rushed out of him, knocking back the zombies. They staggered away under the force of the blast. Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand, and that same wild, natural telekinetic power flowed into him too, palpable proof of the bond between their souls.

Stepping forward into the crush, Eliot dragged Quentin along for a moment, and then they moved together, coordinated, blasting zombies and exploding their skulls. Lifeless bodies oozing purple blood piled up around their feet.

Penny and Kady had vanished, but it didn’t seem to matter. This was going better than Quentin could have dreamed, had he had a chance to dream of anything beyond buying a little time to cast something. Whatever these things were, they must not have magic.

The zombie things, apparently noting the quick demolishment of their brethren, started to run back the other way.

Without the crush of other bodies and pretty much soaked in whatever that blood was, Quentin could finally see the Faraday-like cage that contained Stoppard, who was watching, mostly looking bored.

Grabbing one of the bodies, Quentin pushed it against the cage hoping to short it out, but that didn’t appear to have any effect. “What are these things anyway? Why didn’t you tell us there were zombies, Stoppard?”

“You made it all the way to the dungeon without noticing the Dark King’s minions? How was I supposed to know that?” Stoppard sounded more than a little sassy and frustrated, but then he gave Quentin a second look. “Guess you got your body finally. That’s something at least. You want to get me out of here?”

“That’s the plan. You said if I had a body, I could do it. What do I do?” Quentin looked at the cage, then tested it with his pinky. It tickled, like a low current. “Wait. Did you tell the Dark King we were coming? How did they know to be here?”

Stoppard gestured at Eliot, whose eyes were still glowing as he held his hands at the ready to blast any oncoming enemies. “Your boytoy there dropped his handkerchief. Plover found it. I tried to convince him it was mine, but he knew you’d be back. He even tried to move me out of this cell, but I almost escaped, so he shoved me back in here under full undead guard.”

Eliot frowned at that and looked their direction. “Do you still have it? I really liked that one.”

Staring at Eliot as if he were an unbelievable moron, Stoppard said, “No. I never had it. _Plover_ has it. Go kick his ass and take it back, I guess.”

Then he focused on Quentin. “If you channel your power into the cell, it should blow out the anti-magic wards. They can’t handle the level of energy you’re working with.”

“My boytoy.” Quentin found that more amusing than he should. Stoppard was probably the only person who’d ever seen it that way. Those undead things or whatever were probably running back to Plover or at least for reinforcements, so time was of the essence. “You said I had time magic? Like a god?”

Quentin put his hands on one of the bars of the cage. The low electric hum of it made his hands feel numb, and he concentrated to short it out. The wards started to smoke, reeking of dark magic, and then, in a spray of sparks, the cell fizzled out.

“Fucking finally.” Stoppard stepped out and shoved Quentin’s shoulder in a friendly-seeming way. “And no, I said you were basically _made_ out of god-level time magic. You don’t _have_ time magic, and you’re not a god.” Stoppard paused, staring at Quentin, and then corrected, “Well, you _weren’t_. You got your body now, though. Level up, man. Good for you. Apply yourself, and maybe you’ll get somewhere.”

Then Stoppard started walking away.

That at least explained why he couldn’t actually move time, though Quentin didn’t know how he’d put off Margo’s wolfing out. Sheer force of magical will? “Um, where are you going? We have to stop the wedding, stop Plover.”

“That Traveler who was in here… Penny Adiyodi?” Stoppard sized Quentin up. “He’s from timeline twenty-three?”

“Yeah. A whole new Penny to hate me, apparently.” Quentin frowned, not sure why that mattered. “I’m sure he’ll be back. We’re supposed to have some fairies, too.”

“Well. Good luck with that.” Stoppard turned and kept walking. “You tell Penny 23 I said, ‘fuck you, Penny 23’.”

Stoppard worked some quick, masterful magic, and then he was gone. Just…gone.

Eliot looked to Quentin, expression confused. “Did Stoppard just abandon us instead of taking vengeance on his long-time captor because of _Penny?_ Did Penny fuck his mom or something? What the fuck.”

“God. Probably. _Fuck._ ” Quentin wanted to rage. He moved over to a wall and kicked it with his heel. “We’d better get a move on before those things come back. Where are our goddamn fairies?”

Though, as he thought about it, it was probably too dangerous. He didn’t know the properties of these zombie beings. If they could catch a fairy and use it against them, it was better they stayed away.

“Guess we should follow the mangled body parts if we want to find Josh and Margo.”

 

~*~

 

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to open her eyes. It hurt to exist. So cold.

Kady clutched at Penny with her good arm and wished to god he was _her_ Penny. The ache in her chest was unbearable, but if she died… Well, if she died, she’d see her Penny again.

But Julia…

“Julia,” Kady whispered like a prayer, eyes squeezed shut tight. The way Julia had looked with her hair haloing her radiant face, floating in the sunlight… Kady saw it all again, the perfection of the goddess overwriting her best bitch’s more natural beauty. Just one more loss.

Penny Traveled, and Kady clung instinctively, though she almost didn’t care what happened to her.

“Kady.” The voice so sweet, so understanding. Then warmth swept through Kady’s shivering chill, eased the anguish, and left her floating in softness and light.

“Julia,” she whispered again, sensing her presence, the comfort of her. She could _smell_ her, that jasmine and neroli scent of Our Lady of the Tree. Tears seeped from her closed eyelids as strong hands smoothed over her back and shoulders, petted her hair. Like she was a child.

Kady never cried. She refused to cry. But this comfort… It undid her. The thick calluses over her heart seemed to melt away, and she sniffed sharply, feeling more vulnerable than she could stand.

“Please.” Just a breath now, stripped of power.

She opened her eyes then, and through the blur she saw her Julia gazing at her, gleaming with power, beatific. Sniffing again, Kady hurled herself into Julia’s arms and breathed her in.

“Kady.” Julia held her tightly, her hands on her back, suffusing her with warmth. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Her voice was almost a whisper; Kady wasn’t sure if Julia said it out loud or in her head.

Then Julia’s hands moved to the bite. Heat moved through her, like that first burn of Dilaudid as it came through an IV. Better than the morphine she’d used to dull her pain.

This was like sunlight on her face, like a sea breeze, like sipping ice cold water, clear and crisp.

Julia’s face came more into focus, and she was smiling. Kady smiled back. She couldn’t help it. Lifting her hands gingerly, she cupped Julia’s face and leaned in to rest their foreheads together, so relieved she could hardly find the words.

When the zombie bit her, Kady knew it had been because she was reckless, because she didn’t really care. Part of her wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, stabbing evil monsters to death. If Julia was a goddess again, Julia was leaving. And without Julia…

Well, who did Kady have left? The Hedges looked to her for guidance, but that was a burden as much as anything. The heavy weight of their expectations bowed her, stooped her shoulders when she didn’t exert all her strength to hold them square. Her defiance came at a cost she never let anyone but Julia see.

And Julia could see everything, couldn’t she? She was looking at it right now, gazing into Kady’s eyes from up close and reading her like a fucking book.

Being so naked should’ve frightened Kady, but a part of her had always wanted to be naked with Julia. Not like this, but… It was what it was. Kady was taking what she could get. You could only ask so much of a goddess.

“Are you—” Penny’s voice cut into Kady’s thoughts, soft and sweet but entirely wrong. She wished this Penny wasn’t so likeable, that he wasn’t so decent. Hating him took work, at least, until he was standing too close to her Julia, trying to take away her last someone, and then the hate came through as fresh and strong as meltwater.

“I’m fine,” Kady answered, curt, not wanting to lose Julia’s attention, not wanting to share it.

At the corner of her eye, he held up his hands and backed away. “All right. Good.”

“Flushing out the poison from your system. You were very brave, and woefully underprepared.” Julia eyed Penny playfully. “I thought you knew that Quentin always had the worst ideas.”

Then her attention was back on Kady. “I hope no one minds I disrupted your travel plans. I wanted to talk to you two.”

“I wondered what happened.” Penny snorted, sounding a little peeved, but he could never stay annoyed with Julia for long. At least, Penny 23 couldn’t.

It was still fucking with Kady’s head.

She looked at Julia and tried to find words to express her feelings, but all that came out was, “I prayed to you, and you heard me.”

“I did. You’re on first-name basis with a god, that’s pretty cool, right?” Julia brought her hands up to cup Kady’s face, thumbs stroking her cheeks. “I wasn’t going to interrupt your quest, but it looked like you were ditching early, so I figured now was as good a time as any. Plus, that poison… they couldn’t have helped. So, welcome to Blackspire.”

“This is where you went?” Kady looked around the chamber, made of black Living Stone, flickering with firelight from the braziers and glowing blue from the Fountain. It was as eerie as she remembered, but it felt different now with Julia here, touching her face, making her welcome. If a goddess said you were welcome, you were fucking welcome, right?

“I wondered where you zapped off to,” Penny said. Kady glared at him, resenting the way he just inserted himself into what she felt should be her conversation with Julia. Where did he even come from? Why was he still here? He was just a painful reminder of the love she’d lost…and the love she’d never have.

Sometimes she thought maybe Julia saw her the same way. Sometimes their gazes caught and held a little too long. Sometimes, when they were drinking wine and cuddled up laughing, their sides fit together just right, and they leaned in really too close, and Kady thought just _maybe_ Julia would close the distance between their lips and put her out of her misery.

But she never did. And now she had this whole other life. She’d had a whole other life even before getting her powers back. What was Kady supposed to do with this? Where was she supposed to fit?

Penny held up his hands placatingly. “Just saying.”

He shot Julia a look Kady couldn’t read, and she hated that even more. She’d known all her Penny’s expressions, every nuance of his dear, perfect face and body language. This Penny… He was all wrong. He made a mockery of his handsome features, the hands that had once fit so perfectly on all her curves.

Pushing it out of her mind, still feeling disoriented from the poison bite, the zombies, the Traveling, she looked into Julia’s eyes and for a moment felt real fear that as a goddess Julia knew everything she was thinking.

And Julia was staring at her intently. Not angry, not happy, just curious, as if she was seeing something that she hadn’t known before.

It brought to mind Quentin’s brooding over his childhood crush on Julia, his determination that Julia had to have known and just ignored it. Or worse, had strung him along.

It was Quentin at his most childish and annoying, and it was Kady Julia had cried to over how hurt she was both by his implication and the loss of that friendship. Was that how Julia would see Kady’s feelings? Would she find them as unwelcome as Quentin’s had been?

“Yes. I was sent here. Fillory needs a goddess, and now the Wellspring is the Fountain. I guess I was placed here to make sure that if Quentin Todds this up, at least I can stop Plover.” She looked a little sad about it, not quite as conflicted as Quentin had seemed, but the books were also a big part of her childhood.

Then her features set into a little smile. “Now I have reinforcements.”

“Damn right you do.” Penny’s cheery bluster rubbed Kady the wrong way, but she just smiled, unwilling to make things worse.

“Yeah, we’ve got your back,” Kady promised. She pulled away and started stretching, aware suddenly that Julia hadn’t just healed her of the zombie’s poison bite but of a lingering stiffness in her shoulder. Her smile came more easily then, and she caught Julia’s eye. “Thanks, Jules.”

There was an apology in that expression of gratitude too, probably too subtle for this Penny to notice, but she knew Julia would understand.

“Of course.” Julia’s hands dropped to her sides. “Obviously, I have made my choice to become a goddess, but thanks to Eliot’s Monster thinning out the herd a bit, I was able to negotiate. Turns out, you may have done me a favor, Penny, by preventing me from making a choice while I was in so much pain. But don’t ever make a choice like that for me again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Penny had the grace to look ashamed despite his obvious relief. He opened his mouth to say more, caught Kady’s look, and shut his mouth again.

“What kind of…negotiations did you undertake?” Kady asked instead, looking anywhere but at her companions.

“Fillory needs a god to run it, which means I can concentrate here. It’s not as if Ember and Umber ever did anything beyond fuck Fillory up, and since I don’t care to fuck Fillory up, it’s probably going to be a pretty relaxing gig where I can have friends.” Julia reached out and stroked the back of Kady’s hand. “And if Bacchus was allowed to have priestesses and priests…I should be able to, too. But I’d need volunteers.”

“You already know I volunteer as tribute,” Penny said, and Kady took a deep breath to avoid saying anything nasty. His eager beaver situation was his own cross to bear.

Searching Julia’s face, Kady asked, “Are you suggesting I’d be good at that job? Because I’ve got a lot of Hedges back on Earth waiting on me to return and sort their shit out.” Not that they really needed her now that Alice Quinn was running the Library and Everett Rowe’s death in the Mirror Realm had led to truly stunning levels of magic pouring through every mirror on Earth.

Maybe she should jump at this new opportunity?

But Kady hated being vulnerable, hated showing her soft underbelly, and she wasn’t about to expose herself like this bizarro-world Penny had.

Then, to Kady’s surprise, Penny rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. “Kady… Listen, I know things are weird between us. I know I’m not him and you can’t forgive me for that. But we could do this together. We could… I dunno. Make Fillory a better place. Travel the realms spreading the Gospel of Our Lady of the Tree.”

He paused, and she felt his gaze on her, but she didn’t look up to meet it.

After a long moment, he murmured, “You _would be_ really good at it. You’re good at everything you do. You’re a boss ass bitch.” Then he lifted his hand from her shoulder, like he’d intuited it would be just too much right now.

Julia took Kady’s hand and moved to catch her gaze. “We started this journey together. We went through some real shit, shit that I don’t share with anyone else in the world. Best bitches, survivors… We’ve worked through so much together, and I love you. But I understand if you want to stay and run the hedge witches. Make Earth a better place. It needs as much of that as it can get.”

She looked a little sad, but there was strain on her face as well. As if she was trying not to put any pressure on Kady. “I want for you to be all you want to be, Kady.”

Julia brought Kady’s hand to her cheek and closed her eyes. “No matter where you do it.”

How could Kady resist that? Her heart filled to overflowing, and she leaned in to kiss Julia’s other cheek before resting her forehead on Julia’s shoulder and muttering, “I’ll stay. I’ll be your priestess. You heard me when I prayed. You answered. You brought me here. You healed me… And without you, I don’t know what I have left.”

Sighing, she melted closer against Julia. “I love you too. Best bitches.”

Julia slipped her arms around her, hugging her tightly. “You know that if you feel like things are unfinished on Earth, you can come back when you’re ready. I don’t want to force a decision. I just want to share this with you, but there’s time. I’ll always come when you pray.”

She pulled back and gazed into Kady’s eyes, then leaned in and pressed her lips softly to Kady’s. “You’re worth waiting for if that’s what you need.”

Kady’s heart stopped for a moment, two moments, three, and then thundered in her chest, and she stared at Julia helplessly, unable to speak. She licked her lips like maybe she could still taste Julia there. “Don’t fuck with me, Jules. I can’t—” Her voice creaked. “I can’t take it.”

Penny 23, for once, stayed blessedly silent.

“I’m asking you to spend your life with me, and a longer life than most have.” Julia scanned Kady’s face. “I know I’ve let you down before. And I know I’m…sometimes oblivious.”

She rested her hand on Kady’s heart. “Best bitches is real. _This_ is real.”

Then she turned and took Penny’s hand as well. “Both of you have helped me on this path, and I love you both. As Penny isn’t the Penny you know,” she said to Kady, and then looking to Penny added, “I know I’m not the Julia that you fell in love with either. And I know this is kind of fucked up in some ways. But I also think it makes sense in a fucked-up way that our lives have been kind of fucked up with Brakebills and timelines, god rape. We’ve all seen some real shit. We’re all three these broken pieces, stronger for having been broken, but also strangely fitted to each other. We belong together.”

“Yeah,” Kady answered, at a loss for eloquent words. She looked sidelong at Penny. Love, hate, and the thin line she’d been stomping all over. Then she took his other hand. He squeezed it and twined their fingers, giving her a gentle, crooked little smile that wasn’t _her_ Penny’s, but it was…

Well. It was a smile she could get used to.

 

~*~

 

“Ew, honestly?” Eliot held up a discarded zombie limb between his fingertips and shuddered as he eyed Quentin. “Margo is on a rampage.”

They’d promised to follow her if she wolfed out, but that was growing increasingly problematic. Purple arterial spray and gobbets of mutilated flesh adorned the already hideously made-over corridors of Whitespire, which had, under Eliot’s reign, been tasteful and chic and were now a monstrosity. Eliot could hardly believe his eyes, and he could see _everything_ right now, juiced up as he was on demigod blood. All the tiny details leapt out at him, and the stink… Good lord.

Why had Plover turned Eliot’s beautiful castle into an abattoir? Pedo needed overthrowing STAT.

He and Quentin kept jogging along though, sticking close together, checking in side rooms for stragglers so they couldn’t get flanked. Eliot and Quentin shared magic, blasting such creatures to hell with focused telekinetic waves. Eliot had _never_ had such precision before. It was, all said, amazing.

Still didn’t love that Q had just shoved blood in his mouth—they really needed to revisit their kinks and limits—but the results couldn’t be denied.

Quentin stopped and turned around, fingers up, pointing in different directions, brow furrowed. “Wait… I know I was just a regular king, but… isn’t the throne room that way?”

He pointed where they’d come from, then snaked his hand like he was shimmying up toward the tower. Then he looked in the direction of the limbs. “I think she’s going the wrong way. Guess they’re not were-bloodhounds, huh?”

“Ugh.” Eliot had been so focused on following Bambi and trying not to step in goop that he hadn’t even noticed. “Well, I guess this is where we part ways with our wolfy brethren.” He paused. “And sistren. Margo would flagellate me for calling her a bro.”

He gestured to Quentin to head the right way and then took off at a lope. It was easier now there weren’t pools of congealing zombie guts everywhere. They still paused to check side rooms and blasted the occasional zombie, but altogether there were a lot fewer than he’d expected. As they neared the passage to the throne room up from the dungeon, Eliot had just enough time to notice a quick, unpleasant sizzling across his nape before a fucking cage materialized around them.

“Shit.” Eliot stared at Quentin and then reached for the cell bars. “Is this—Q, shit, it’s a magic-cancelling cage like they put Stoppard in. Goddamn it. We got boobytrapped.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll just…” Quentin grabbed the bars and closed his eyes, but his hands didn’t glow as they had when he’d let Stoppard out. Probably because this time he was inside of the cage instead of outside.

That appeared to occur to Quentin, so he stretched his arm out of the cage and tried reaching back for it, which was, as far as flexibility went, kind of hot. But as far as successfully breaking the cage, not so effective.

He stared up at the top of the cage, looking at the bars as if he could riddle them out. “Still have that flask?”

“Um yeah.” Eliot reached into his tunic and produced a flask, which he uncapped and sniffed. Magic. He passed that to Quentin. Then he uncapped his other flask and had some scotch. Daddy needed some Me Time.

“So are you going to…try overpowering the cage from the inside? Because Stoppard was in one for like three centuries, and he’s a magical genius, and he kind of made it sound like it had to be done from the outside…”

“But he wasn’t a god. Or have god-like magic powers or something.” Quentin rubbed his forehead as he looked around in a panic. “Genius or not, raw power’s got its merits for this sort of thing, right? If it could’ve been a magician from the outside, you could’ve done it when we were here the first time.”

Quentin moved his fingers in a tut and got a spark. “Can you get that much going in here?”

Eliot swigged his scotch again before recapping it and tucking it back into his tunic. Then, not expecting much, he wiggled his fingers through a minor telekinetic spell, one of the first he’d mastered. It didn’t do more than tingle. “Nope. I’m not getting traction, Q. But if all you’ve got is a spark, then _honestly_ what do you expect to pull off?”

After allowing himself to wallow for about five seconds, Eliot rallied. It never did anyone any good for him to stay downtrodden around Quentin. “All right, so. Let’s take stock. You’ve got enough power to get a spark, but not enough to overload the cage. So we’ve got to zhoosh it up a little.”

As Eliot spoke, a cadre of grim-faced zombies roamed down the corridor toward them. Fucking great.

Tearing his gaze from them, Eliot looked to Quentin and focused in on his face, on his panic, and on mitigating that. “Q, we’re going to have to bang our way out. We need a wild magical eruption, which is my bejizzled specialty.”

Besides, it would chill Q out enough that he could function magically. In theory. Possibly.

“Well, I mean, yeah, that’s why I thought the flask, some magical water to help, but…” Quentin looked behind him at the zombies rushing the cage. “Fuck here? In front of the _zombies_?”

Eliot frowned and looked from the zombies to Quentin and back again before shaking his head with a distressed noise. Squinting at Q, he asked, “So are you afraid of _upsetting_ them? Or arousing them? Because, sweetheart, I don’t think they care.”

Then Eliot started unfastening his pants, his gaze fixed on Quentin’s lovely mouth. “I don’t suppose you have any lube on you?”

“Just spit and determination. I’d say I could try the lube spell, but if I produce sparks…”

Damn, Eliot should’ve known to pick out fashion for Quentin that included pockets. Not that they ever used regular lubrication. Not that they ever needed to.

“Well, fuck.” Eliot pursed his lips, eyed Quentin, and then looked up at the cage’s glowing apex. Looking back to Quentin, he shrugged. “Spit and determination.”

 


	19. Zombies Can Talk, They Just Shouldn’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and El get heckled. Margo feasts. The Prince of the Mud is delighted.

Zombies crowded the cage, wide-eyed and yellow-fanged, and even Eliot had to admit these were adverse circumstances under which to engage in some good old-fashioned anal. It would’ve been one thing if he’d had lube, but as it was, he was staring at Quentin’s outsized cock and silently despairing. With the zombies present, relaxation would be a problem. Without lube, Quentin’s endowment would be a problem.

And, of course, they were trapped in a magic-nullifying cage somewhere on the way to the throne room of Whitespire where their great, great, great (whatever) granddaughter was about to be forcibly wed to an idiot of a Todd calling himself the Dark King, at which point she would be of age to come into her magic and Christopher Plover, children’s author and renowned pedophile, would torture the unhappy couple into oblivion to steal their power on his way to exalting himself as a god.

Something like that, anyway, Eliot thought as he sipped his scotch. He might be fuzzy on some details.

Meanwhile, Margo was running wild as a werewolf with Josh tagging along as inoffensively and ineffectually as ever (probably; Eliot hadn’t seen them in a while, so he didn’t know for certain), Fen was leading an army of FU Fighters above, and Julia—the actual goddess—had disappeared on them along with magical genius Daniel “Stoppard” Kikuno. So had Penny 23 and Kady, their Traveler and zombie-slayer.

Of course, a zombie had bitten Kady, so they got a hall pass, but honestly.

Eliot brooded on the situation while he gazed at Quentin’s limp but already sizeable dick and then decided there was no help for it. He’d do what had to be done. He was the former High King, he was engaged to a demigod, and he was going to fellatio and think of England. Or Fillory.

If they could just _stick_ to the fellatio, everything would be hunky-dory. Q would relax, Eliot would get a power up… But they only had _one chance_ at this. They were under a time-crunch. And Quentin’s refractory period, while respectable, wasn’t going to allow for a do-over if the cocksucking didn’t generate enough force.

Nope. El was gonna have to catch that dick so they could use the power of that deep anal connection to fry the anti-magic circuits and free themselves. Better safe than sorry. Probably.

Should’ve brought the cane. He’d be limping after this.

Giving Quentin his sultriest smile, Eliot went down on his knees, spat on his hands, and stroked Quentin’s cock.

“I’ve never sucked cock for an audience of zombies before,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “You know how I love to show off my sexy husband-to-be. You gonna fuck me, Q? Just right here on the floor of Whitespire? Can’t say I never imagined that…”

“I have to admit, a live sex show for the undead is not how I thought this day was going to go.”

“Weee’re nooooot deaaaaad,” one of the undead-looking things hissed, which was unlikely because there weren’t a lot of sibilants in that, but trust and believe, it was hissed.

Quentin put his hands over his face. “Oh my god. How is that helping?”

“Weeee don’t want to heeeelp yooooou.”

“What? I mean, why not? What does it cost you? You could turn around, but you’re not. You’re standing here watching and hissing and I’m doing my best here.” Quentin dropped his hands and turned. His dick swung at Eliot’s cheek. “ _Are you not entertained_?”

“Ooh _Gladiator_ Q. That’s working for me,” Eliot crooned as he rubbed his cock-slapped cheek. He didn’t hate that, either. Grinning, Eliot reached down to squeeze his own cock, which was honestly pretty into this whole scenario, more so now he knew the zombies were sentient and spoke their language.

Nuzzling at Q’s crotch, he said for the zombies’ benefit, “Mm, Q, your ball musk is exquisite.”

A sound of general revulsion from the zombies just made Eliot grin harder.

“Oh, what, my balls are gross, but you’ll fight for a pedophile? You know what? None of you deserve to see my dick.” Quentin fidgeted, obviously very offended by the zombie reaction, but aroused by Eliot touching him.

Had they ever fucked while Quentin was arguing with an audience? He didn’t think so.

They really should’ve taken their show on the road. Then again, the Mosaic didn’t travel.

Oh well.

There was time. Put this fucking cage on wheels. Bring some lube…

Now that was _really_ doing it for him. Eliot knew he was good. Hecklers just added some spice to the proceedings.

“They don’t deserve to see your dick, baby, so why don’t we hide it in my mouth?” Eliot stroked Quentin and drew his cock to his lips, nuzzling and kissing along its length and then opening wide to choke it down. He worked over Q’s cock eagerly, sincerely enjoying himself and groaning so Q could enjoy that enjoyment. As Eliot sucked him, he stroked his own erection and squirmed a little with how deliciously slutty he felt.

Quentin seemed to finally block out the zombies. His eyes were closed, and he grabbed the back of Eliot’s head, using his mouth deftly, especially considering how much bigger he was now.

Maybe he hadn’t upgraded himself on purpose. Perhaps his dick size was one of those things Jane Chatwin had changed in one of the timelines. Obviously, the big dick energy wasn’t enough to kill the Beast, but it might well kill Eliot’s ass if they really had to go there dry.

Then something hit the cage. Hard. With a loud clang. Like metal hitting metal, but maybe like bone hitting metal? Eliot couldn’t think. He was sucking Quentin’s cock, and it was glorious.

“Oh shit!” Quentin pulled his hips back and grabbed his dick, and it wasn’t until a disgruntled Eliot turned his head to look that he understood why.

Margowolf had apparently slipped under a zombie’s legs and bit down hard. She was now shaking her head, whacking the zombie’s noggin against the bars repeatedly.

Behind her, Josh squinted at them. “What are you guys doing in there?”

Quentin gestured at his dick and Eliot’s proximity. “Feel like that’s pretty obvious.”

Beaming, Eliot waved. “Hi, Josh.”

“Eliot, good to see you, man.” Josh smiled as Margowolf laid waste to the zombies who’d gathered around Quentin and Eliot, hitting them hard while they were distracted by the live sex show. Josh helped too, kind of, stabbing into skulls with his Fairy dagger while Margowolf’s purpled maw did horrible, horrible things.

Eliot’s cock wilted as he took in the frankly un-unseeable.

For once, Eliot was glad he was in the cage. If he’d been out there with Margo while she _totally lost all dignity and control_ , he might’ve… God, he didn’t know.

He clung to Quentin’s hips and fought down a wave of extremely unpleasant anxiety.

Josh must’ve noticed Eliot’s distress because he called out, “She’ll dewolf as soon as she kills an actual person. These zombies don’t count.”

“For some reason, I’m thinking about that Welters game,” Quentin said as he watched Margowolf dismember another zombie. “Hey, Josh, can you let us out of here?”

Even if he could, that sounded unsafe.

“Um…” Josh stepped around Margo and then gingerly gripped the bars. “I’m um… I’m an herbalist, guys, and a vagician. This is not my wheelhouse, but I’ll try.”

“Wait!” Eliot reached for the magic flask and tried to pass it through the bars to Josh. Josh tried to take it. The fucking thing kept bouncing back, the final time hard enough to clatter on the ground. “Fuck.”

“It’s okay, guys. Um—”

Then Margowolf ran out of zombies to dispatch and attacked the cage head-on, slavering jaws grating against the bars. The sound sent a thrill of dread down Eliot’s spine. Was she trying to save them? Or eat them?

“Honey?” Josh’s voice went up slightly with placating alarm. “Honey, let’s go find someone else to maim.”

From the far end of the hall approaching the throne room, a loud banging echoed. Margowolf’s head swiveled toward it, and then she tore off, clawed feet scraping against the smooth stone flooring as she ran. Josh sighed, shot Eliot and Quentin a long-suffering look, and then started to dash after her.

“Wait! Josh!” Eliot called. “Do you have any lube?”

Josh turned, jogging backward, and reached into his pocket. Then, without stopping, he quarterbacked that shit right at the cage. It sailed through the air, precious substance, and landed right outside the bars, bouncing once.

“Oh, thank god.” Eliot reached out through the bars, trying to avoid the worst of the zombie gobbets, and seized the little bottle. “Thanks, Hoberman! You’re an ass-saver!”

“No problemo!” Josh saluted and then turned again to chase after Margo.

Quentin looked around at all the zombie parts. “It’s so quiet now.”

So now he _missed_ the zombies? Honestly, sometimes there was no pleasing Quentin Coldwater.

“So, that was a lot of…” Quentin looked down at Eliot, who was still on his knees. It seemed like he read something in Eliot’s expression, because he got on his knees with Eliot and wrapped his arms around his neck. He nuzzled his face as he did when he wanted to slow things down and have a little romance, which they didn’t really have time for, but Eliot appreciated the affection.

Seeing Margo like that had distressed him more than he could articulate, or ever wanted to. She’d surely be humiliated to know some of the excesses, though she’d probably be proud of the body count.

“Gotta say, she is really making up for everyone else ditching.” Quentin moved to catch Eliot’s gaze, smiled softly, and then leaned in to kiss him. The reassuring taste and smell of Quentin helped steady Eliot’s nerves. “We’ve got this. We can blow the top off any cage in our sleep. In fact, we blew the top off the Underworld in our dreams, didn’t we?”

He really was a sweet boy.

Quentin slid his hands down Eliot’s chest, reaching for his cock and teasing it. “That cock slap was pretty good, wasn’t it? Want to try that again on purpose, hm?”

He put two fingers in his mouth, sucking them lightly, and then slid those fingers down Eliot’s cleft and fingered him gently. “Think we have time for a little nibble?”

God bless Q for loving to eat ass as much as Eliot loved having it eaten.

“Just a quick snack,” Eliot allowed, smiling again despite everything. “One slice of my cake.”

He pushed the rest of his trousers down around his knees and kissed Quentin giddily, hardly believing they were about to fuck in front of a hallway full of zombie corpses, but he’d committed to doing whatever it took. This was, apparently, what it took.

“Probably for the best. With this body, I can’t afford too many carbs.” Quentin rolled his eyes playfully before he grabbed Eliot by the hips. Roughly turning him around, he pushed Eliot’s head down by his nape until Eliot was on all fours.

It was fun when Q was feeling himself and got a little more aggressive. Consensual manhandling was a real turn-on. Well, according to Eliot, who was the only one whose opinion mattered right now.

With Eliot in position, Quentin dove between his cheeks, enthusiastic but not sloppy. His tongue swirled around Eliot’s opening, making him squirm and silently beg for more. Normally, Quentin would hold out, keep teasing Eliot until he vocally begged, but there wasn’t time for that.

A loud crack came from the throne room. Lights flashed as if lightning were striking in there.

Shit, they had to get in.

Quentin also had to get in, so he backed off his teasing, fingered Eliot just enough to spread the lube, and then lined up his cock with Eliot’s entrance.

“Push back when you’re ready.”

On one hand, Eliot was aware Quentin 2.0’s cock was not something to be taken lightly. On the other hand, they had a wedding to crash and a kingdom to save.

Eliot was _born_ ready. (Not really, probably, but it sounded good. He needed the mental boost.)

Flexing his hands against the smooth floor, Eliot pressed back slowly against Quentin’s slicked head, pushing onto it with meditative determination. He breathed deeply and focused on relaxing his body, some of it habitual and some deliberate, all of it fucking helpful.

As Quentin breached him bit by bit, Eliot sighed in relief and pushed back harder. Maybe it was on-demand sex magic with a demigod out in the wide open of Castle Whitespire surrounded by cooling zombie guts, but Eliot was never happier than when he and Q were together like this, one inside the other, their bodies joined like their hearts.

It was so sappy, but he couldn’t help himself. As long as he didn’t say it _out loud_ , it was okay to think it, to feel it, to thrive on it.

Without a word, he reached for Quentin’s left hand and brought it down to curl around Eliot’s half-hard cock. He could feel the smooth, hard band of the ring he’d given Quentin, the proof they were engaged, that someday they’d be married, that Quentin would be _his_. They’d raise a family together, shape the fate of a world together…

And Eliot could have all the sex and all the hugs and all the butt squeezes he wanted.

That thought relaxed him enough that he could take a few more inches, take Quentin halfway, and Eliot groaned in contentment as he planted his hands on the cold floor once more and worked himself over Quentin’s cock, luxuriating in the hot stretch of it, the satisfying burn of being taken.

“Quentin,” he whispered, reverent, blissful. “More.”

This was probably going to be a rougher ride than usual. Quentin’s new size combined with the urgency of the situation meant they’d have to be as quick as possible. But still, this was Quentin, and so he leaned over Eliot’s back and pressed kisses wherever he could reach as he worked up a steady rhythm, pleasurable even with the stupid Muggle lubrication.

Quentin’s hand tightened around Eliot’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, shifting his hips until he elicited a gasp from Eliot. Then Quentin kept to that spot, driving deeper, harder, and faster. His noises echoed off the walls like a chorus, an audience of a different kind.

“Love you,” Quentin whispered into Eliot’s ear before he nipped at the lobe. “Let’s get our girl.”

Quentin “Yeah,” Eliot agreed, exulting in the kisses, in Quentin’s soft, sweet voice. “Love you too, Q. We’re gonna get out of here.”

More sound and light came from the direction of the throne room, but Eliot ignored it to savor Quentin’s nearness, how alive and strong he was, how far from that horrible… Eliot pushed away the memories of Q’s death, of how bad it had gotten before it miraculously got better. All he wanted was to live in this moment, to focus on the joy of Q fucking him, the cold stone under him, the smooth hardness of Quentin’s engagement ring where it rubbed along the vein on the underside of Eliot’s cock.

Shivering, Eliot thrust back to meet Quentin, rocking his hips and groaning at the battering his prostate was taking. It felt so good it hurt, tiptoeing along the edge of _too damn much_ , but Eliot had always been extra, and he wasn’t about to slow it down.

“Q,” he gasped, clenching around Quentin’s shaft, eyes closed and head tipped back as he grew closer to release. “Oh god, Q, c’mon. You gonna cum in me, Q? You gonna fill me up? Everyone’s gonna see me limping around and know you were inside me. They’re all gonna know what we were doing. That I’m yours. And I’ll be so proud, so proud to be yours, Quentin Coldwater. Jerk me, Q. Just keep—Just keep going. God, so good.”

Quentin fisted Eliot’s hair, pulling his head back to kiss him deeply, his thrusts rougher and faster like he relished the thought of everyone knowing. Like he was drunk on possessing Eliot. While Quentin was always filled with love, always so sweet, his deep undercurrent of insecurity and need made him intense, too. You couldn’t be with Q without that intensity consuming you.

Though it had once scared Eliot, now he knew that ferocity was what brought Quentin back to him. He lost himself in Q’s need, sinking back into him, merging body and soul. Where they connected, power flowed in and out of him, generating wild magic. Almost too much.

Quentin hadn’t even come yet, and Eliot felt his eyes glowing, magic pouring out of his open mouth. Q’s hips snapped harder and harder, the impacts of their bodies echoing almost too loud to bear, the heavy, fleshy thwacking resounding from the stone walls.

And then Quentin was coming, pouring into Eliot. Frightening power coursed through Eliot. He felt as if he were on the precipice, thoughts flickering to Alice’s crazy blue gleam as she Niffined out.

Before that could happen, Quentin grabbed one of Eliot’s hands and placed it on the bars. Eliot lifted both hands to grab hold as he pushed back onto Quentin, fucking him wildly and growling out an Old Norse chant as he sent his power surging into the anti-magic wards. Quentin moved with him, wringing Eliot’s orgasm from him amidst the incandescent flow of energy.

A bright, coppery tang like fresh blood filled the air, and then the scent of flowers—peonies, Eliot thought distantly, his mind crawling and his magic racing.

The cage shorted out with a smoky clamor, the whole thing dissolving into a metallic miasma. Flinging out his hands, Eliot released a telekinetic wave that blew it all away—not just the smoggy remnants of the cage but the carnage Margo had left behind. It drained the excess power from Eliot, just enough that his mind cleared, and then he sighed and relaxed bonelessly back against Quentin.

Sighing, he said, “Good work, Q.”

Quentin squeezed Eliot in a wholly welcome bear hug and then slid from him. Eliot’s body flexed around nothing, but at least there wasn’t a mess. Apparently he’d absorbed every drop of magical demigod cum.

There was another crack and an explosion of light from the throne room, which motivated Quentin to hop up and pull up his pants. He offered his hand to Eliot, and once they were both vertical and clothed, they ran for the doorway to the throne room.

Well, Quentin ran. Eliot sort of staggered, cursing mentally and wishing he could wait out the afterglow in a luxurious canopy bed with a glass of wine in hand.

Inside was chaos. Someone had unleashed a highly unlikely thunderstorm that made the marble floors slippery. A dining table had been turned on its side, behind which Todd and Josh were hiding and trying to work counterspells to stop the storm.

Somehow, the Prince’s head was through the now-expanded window behind the thrones, twisted to one side, apparently biting anything he could get at. All he’d really succeeding in doing was splintering the thrones and the altar.

Across from the table, Plover held his arm around Janet’s neck behind overturned couches. The three fairies that had probably been meant to accompany the magicians appeared to be trying to negotiate Janet away from him.

As alarming and chaotic as the scene was, what _really_ worried Eliot was that there was no sign of Margo.

 _Shit_.

“Todd, you were supposed to _protect her!”_ Eliot yelled, like that would help anything, but it made him feel better.

He stalked into the midst of things, casting Rogers’s Stunning Shield Charm over himself and Quentin and fucking daring anyone to hit them. The stunning shield would reflect the magic back at and stun the caster. It was a high-level charm, but Eliot was so revved up on demigod spunk that he might as well put it to use. Quentin caught on to what he was doing and fed his own magic into the charm, fortifying it with cooperative magic.

Lightning zapped Eliot and rebounded, startling Plover. He staggered back, releasing Janet, who cleverly made a break for it. The fairies nabbed her and disappeared. With Janet out of the way, nothing was stopping them from killing Plover.

Josh and Todd vaulted over the table, slipped on the wet floor, and while Josh kept his footing, Todd wiped out, grabbed Josh for balance, and took Hoberman down with him.

Fucking classic.

Eliot released the Stunning Shield as Quentin advanced on Plover, the two of them moving in tandem and preparing battle magic. Plover recovered quickly, forming a quick series of brutal tuts, a spell Eliot had never seen before, and the hairs on his nape stood on end with the crackling build of energies. He started to reach for Quentin, to drag him out of the way, to do something _anything_ not to lose him again—

When Margowolf leapt out of the shadows, tackled Plover to the ground, and tore out his throat. Immortal, Plover gurgled and clawed at Margo, trying to protect himself, but she _ate_ what she ripped out of him, tossing her glossy dark head back and bolting it like a real wolf.

“Oh god,” Eliot muttered, realization dawning. “She’s gonna eat him alive. She won’t dewolf until she kills someone, and _he can’t die_.”

Torn between fascination and utter, stomach-churning horror, Eliot turned his back and then peeked through his fingers as Margo shredded Plover.

“And if he can’t die, then the Prince…” Quentin looked up at the Prince who turned his head to glare at them. “Won’t get his soul and…”

The scene was gruesome. She systematically decapitated him, because why wouldn’t she? That had worked on the zombies.

Plover begged and cried for them to help him, and while Eliot expected for Quentin to have some sympathy, there was something dark behind his eyes as he watched Plover’s mutilation. A savage sense of satisfaction, which, given what Quentin had seen him do in the ghost house, maybe did give him a sense of schadenfreude.

“Please. God. Please. Anyone.” Plover’s head sat on the floor, watching Margo disembowel him. It was almost more than Eliot could take.

But then a warm light entered the room, and Julia appeared in white, glowingly beautiful. “You rang?”

Plover stared up at her. “You have to help me.”

“I will.”

“Julia, no.” Quentin took a few steps forward to her as she eyed him.

“My job is to answer prayers in Fillory, Q.”

“But he…”

Julia put her finger to Quentin’s lips and gave him a soft smile. “Do you have a prayer for me?”

Quentin blinked at her, but then seemed to catch up. “I need him to pledge his soul to the Prince of the Mud.”

“Hm. Sounds like we have a deal we could work here, Mr. Plover.” Julia gazed down at him.

He looked up, and then his eyes rolled back as if he could somehow see the giant turtle behind him. No neck, no turning. “That thing? My soul?”

“Mhm.” Julia crouched down. “After you die.”

That seemed to light Plover up. “Sure. Sure, I pledge my soul to the Prince of the Mud. Willingly. After I have died. Now help me!”

The Prince of the Mud grunted, apparently satisfied.

“All right. I’ll help you.”

Quentin started for Plover, but Julia held up a hand. “You got your prayer, Q. Fair is fair.”

Plover cackled in delight. “And I cannot die! The Prince gets nothing! You get nothing! I will—”

Julia set her hand on his hair, and the glow moved from her hand to light up his whole head. The runes on his face lit up and then, one-by-one, vanished in puffs of smoke. She was undoing Martin Chatwin’s magic, which, as a god, was likely her prerogative.

The laughter ceased, and Plover’s eyes went blank.

Julia gazed down at the head grimly. “Gotta be careful what you wish for.”

After a beat, Margo dewolfed and started to cough and spit. “Oh my god. Ugh, oh god, what is this? I’ve gotta get the taste of Plover out of my mouth.”

She looked up at Eliot, gory hand up. “Flask?”

“Um, sure, Bambi.” Eliot averted his gaze, reached into his tunic for the flask, and double-checked it was the scotch before offering it to her. “You, um… You really turned the tide of battle today. You deserve a shot or three.”

Josh approached, beaming like he wasn’t the least bit grossed out, and said, “Honey! You killed the immortal pedophile! Good work!”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, trying to cover his queasiness with a chipper attitude. “Good work, Margo.” Then he looked to Julia and added, “Good work, Jules the Fillorian goddess of trees and, apparently, everything else.”

“First day on the job, feeling pretty good about it.” Julia grinned and then waved her hand, cleaning the gore from the floor and Margo. She rendered her into a slinky, but regal gown and restored the crown to Margo’s head.

Quentin leaned in to whisper to Eliot, “Remind me to be careful what I shout about when I come,” and Eliot laughed and slid his arm around Quentin’s waist.

Margo looked down at her clothes, then reached up to feel her crown and her hair. She put her arm around Josh and exhaled in front of him. “I don’t have immortal pedophile breath now, do I?”

“Hey, um. Um. Margo. Hi.” Todd stood in the middle of the room, apparently not having received the memo that now would not be a good time. Eliot almost pitied him.

Almost.

Except that Todd had been nowhere near protecting Janet-Margo Coldwawa when they got here, and probably deserved whatever he got.

This would be good.

Josh started to say, “Maybe you should—” Then he cut himself off with a glance to Margo, as if he realized being a bro was just not gonna be a good look for him here.

“So you really thought you could take my crown, did you?” Margo took a long swig from the flask and held it out to Eliot, who took it lest it get thrown at Todd. “You thought that you could just sit here and play king and when the _real_ king returned that I’d… _marry_ you?”

She stood right up to him, heels bringing her closer to his height physically. In royal bearing, she dwarfed him completely.

Todd quailed, looking from Margo to Josh like Josh might manage the situation. Josh held up his hands, helpless, and Todd looked to Eliot with pleading eyes.

“That _is_ what you did, Todd,” Eliot said, his tone diplomatic but his motives significantly fiercer.

“I didn’t—I just—” Todd’s stupid expression crumpled. “Margo, please. I _love_ you. I did this for us! I just wanted to rule beside you. Like Eliot did! We could be such a great team. Remember Ibiza?”

Oh boy. Digging himself in deeper. Eliot almost felt the need to watch through his fingers again.

“You can’t rule with me. You couldn’t even manage a non-magical pedophile. You couldn’t even protect a preteen.” She poked his chest, knocking him backwards a step each time. “I will not be _tricked_ into a relationship. I am not a prize to be won or owned. I am the fucking democratically elected High King of Fillory, once deposed, and I’m taking this whole goddamn fantasy land back.”

She grabbed Eliot’s crown off Todd’s head. “You’re deposed, dickwad. Now get the fuck out of my castle.”

“Hey, Q, remember how Ember and Umber would just kick-ban people from Fillory?” Julia asked.

Before he could answer, Todd had vanished.

“J—Julia, did you just kick-ban Todd from Fillory?” Eliot blinked. It had been so quick he hardly had time to process it. “Please tell me you just sent him back three hundred years to Brakebills.”

Josh looked a little green around the gills but said nothing. He obviously knew better than to mess with the girl power manifesting in the Whitespire throne room. Hell, he probably enjoyed it as much as Eliot did, once they got past the whole Todd-the-idiot going poof scenario.

The more he thought about it, the funnier it seemed. Todd was, in keeping with Umber’s laws, _very_ Child of Earth. Emphasis on child.

“Yeah, I just sent him to Brakebills. If he finds a way back, I’ll reconsider, but right now with the peasant uprising and everything else, it’s probably safer for him to not be here.” Julia smiled and then raised her hands, which made Penny and Kady appear. Neat trick.

“I’d like you to meet my new high priest and priestess. We’ll be here mostly not breaking things and supporting Margo until the next election.”

“Another election?” Margo didn’t look thrilled but gave a little shrug. “I’m a very fashionable shoo-in. Especially with High King Fen and Josh the Fresh Prince by my side. Unless High King Eliot wants another run at it?”

“I could run,” Quentin said slightly defensively. “People like me.”

“But then who will be the Ember to my Umber?” Julia grinned at Quentin with a hint of mischief.

“I’m not a god. I just have god-like time magic powers in me, or something.” Quentin folded his arms.

“I have it on good authority that you’re a demigod. You can find a way to become a god with me if you want to.”

Quentin looked at Eliot, whose chest felt suddenly tight, and then back to Julia. “Really?”

“Yeah. Fillory needed a god, and if I turned it down, it was going to be you.”

“Why am I always the runner up?”

“You want to take the journey I did to become a goddess, Q?”

Chastened, Quentin shook his head. “No.”

“It would change things with El,” Julia explained gently. “And the life you seem to want.”

Quentin looked at Eliot and took his hand, twining their fingers together, and the tightness in Eliot’s chest eased. “I don’t want to change that. We’re getting married.”

She nodded and smiled. “I heard.”

“Hey, is it my turn to get wishes granted?” The raspy voice of The Prince of the Mud cut above everything else somehow.

“She’s not a Questing Beast, Prince; she’s a goddess. Show some respect.” Margo stomped her foot to emphasize her point.

“Sorry. I just… You know, it’s lonely in the Northern Marsh. I know Crocella is just a shoe, but I am the last of the great snapping turtles. I wish….”

Julia and Margo traded looks.

Margo cleared her throat. “If you can get back to the Northern Marsh without eating anyone, and you swear that you and Crocella won’t eat any citizens of Fillory, including talking animals… I think we can work something out.”

Eliot bit his lip and stifled a laugh as he hugged Q closer, smiling into his hair. He whispered, “Will you feel better once Crocella is a real lady who can consent, or does it just pain you physically for giant turtles to be happy?”

“I just don’t want to be there when he’s getting happy, okay? Is that too much to ask? Not to mention that he tried to _eat_ you and, you know, jizzed on me. So maybe I do have some big turtle damage.” Quentin squeezed Eliot. “He keeps himself in the Northern Marsh, we’ll have no problem.”

The Prince of the Mud gave a proud nod. “I will head back and await your return.”

Then his head vanished.

Quentin dragged Eliot to the hole in the wall where they could see the remaining FU Fighters facing off with the last of the Dark King’s zombie minions.

Then Quentin pointed. “Whoa, are those unicorns?”

Indeed, there was a small herd of unicorns. The two in front were being ridden by small people. Quentin squared his fingers and focused in so he could see more clearly.

“Oh, that’s Fennel… and Janet… and they’re…”

Janet’s unicorn lowered its head and rammed its horn straight through a zombie’s head, pinning its corpse against a tree.

“Oh. Wow.” Quentin blinked. “That was… graphic.”

“Our kid’s _amazing_.” Eliot stared and then looked up.

Above the fracas, Fen rode a pegasus, directing the flow of battle. The unicorns flanked the main body of zombies, driving them toward a choke point where FU Fighters waited.

“General Fen,” he observed. “Also amazing.”

Then he looked back toward where High King Margo, Julia, and Kady had taken charge of securing the inside of the castle, with Penny and Josh’s help. Eliot smiled and gazed out the window in time to see his little Fennel fistbump Janet as they jointly executed another pair of zombies. Beyond the castle wall, the Cozy Horse was shuttling troops back and forth. More pegasi swooped over the field, helping the wounded relocate.

Turning his attention on Quentin, Eliot jerked his chin toward the battle dwindling down below. “What do you say we get down there, explode some more zombie heads? Really show the kids what we can do?”

“Think we’re going to have to. Prove to those kids we can take care of them.” Quentin leaned in and stole a kiss from Eliot. “Guess we don’t have to worry about whether they’ll get along.”  

Quentin whistled and waved at the pegasi, and after a minute of neighing—apparently the equine messaging system—Fizzlesnip flew over and hovered to let them on. “Good to see you, sirs. I hear there is a congratulation in order.”

Eliot’s ears burned with pleasurable embarrassment to be congratulated by a fucking pegasus. “Yeah, me and Q are gonna tie the knot. You’re invited to the wedding.”

He mounted Fizzlesnip gingerly, all too aware of the ground far below and the post-coital throbbing going on, and then held out his arms to help Q climb up behind him. Quentin clambered on and immediately wrapped his arms around Eliot to cling. Eliot loved that feeling, Q’s body crushed up behind him, fitted against him just perfectly.

Fizzlesnip tossed his head and beat his wings, carrying them away from the broad throne room windows and down toward the scrum. As they descended, Eliot focused, shaped a blast with his fingers, and exploded the head of a zombie right before it charged Fennel. He whooped triumphantly, and General Fen swooped in close on her own winged mount. She just grinned.

The zombies were routed. Whitespire was secure. They’d crashed the wedding.

Janet-Margo Coldwawa and Fennel Waugh were on their way to being a badass, zombie-slaying, unicorn-riding dream team. Quentin’s hand had sneaked beneath Eliot’s tunic to rest against the bare skin of his belly. Back at Brakebills, Todd had the world’s best party story.

And somewhere in the Northern Marsh, Plover’s soul was destined to spend eternity watching giant snapping turtles get it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a wedding to plan now.  
> If you're curious what I've been listening to while writing https://open.spotify.com/user/clancynacht/playlist/4v5zCdKSf1Hnzy8TtW0Oyg?si=gynFsXATR0y37yCfVhtKtA


	20. Peaches & Plums, Motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big, smooshy wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smooshy wedding playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/clancynacht/playlist/1HnK3KTWi9jpJqi5UAJW45?si=mAC9TyXVRh6WwPYD321r8g

Quentin fussed with the peach silk brocade cuff of his High King Eliot-style suit. Tuxedo? After having already experienced bridezilla Eliot when he was going to marry King Idri, Quentin mostly just tried to stay out of the way with the wedding planning. His one request, which was granted, was that they marry at the Mosaic.

It might’ve seemed risky to plan an outdoor wedding, but since the goddess of Fillory was marrying them, he felt the odds were in his favor that it wouldn’t rain.

His white hair was swept back, long enough now to collect in a ponytail, which seemed to thrill Eliot and all-in-all made him look pretty dapper all dandied up.

Josh had tended to the outside of the cottage, lavishing it with climbing vines that gave it a more regal air. They replaced the door with one that had an intricate carving of a beautiful peach tree. At the bottom were carvings of a harvest of peaches and plums, making the cottage a monument to the life they’d lived here before.

It was now apparently a real hot spot for Fillorian tourism. “Sleep in the bed of former High King Eliot and King Quentin!”

He was glad that Fillorian technology didn’t yet include blacklight.

Surely they’d changed the sheets.

And really, High King Margo and Fresh Prince Josh also broke in that bed, but that ruined the romance of what they were trying to sell here, apparently.

Above, fairies and pegasi hovered, holding bountiful garlands of magical flowers—some from the Drowned Garden who’d agreed to be moved for the special day to give their own blessings—and special singing blooms.

Julia stood at the altar, glowing and beautiful with Penny on her left and Kady on her right. Since they shared so many friends, they’d agreed not to have a wedding party. At least, that’s what Quentin chose to believe; it had nothing to do with his wondering aloud if Alice should be part of the wedding party.

She sat in the front row, though, and had brought Todd of all people as her date, which Julia had allowed after Janet-Margo had given her consent. Quentin just called her Janet-Margo his daughter now, out of convenience and because she needed parents. She and Fennel served as flower girl and ring bearer.

Just thinking about how cute they were in rehearsal made his eyes water. Sniffing, he turned his gaze to Julia.

She leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, Q. He loves you. He’ll be here.”

Quentin blinked, suddenly filled with anxiety. “What? You think he might…?”

He looked out at the crowd. Fen sat on the opposite side of the aisle from Alice, holding hands with Josh. Margo was apparently giving Eliot away, so she was nowhere in sight.

They’d patterned the aisle in an elegant curve that was apparently chic, or at least that’s what he was told. They used the tiles from the mosaic to pave the way, and it was lined with lush Fillorian plant life courtesy of Josh and garnished with their signature peaches and plums. They adorned every row.

The black seats were filled with friends and Fillorians, but further out were dwarves and elves he’d never seen. Dryads and nymphs had crowded in along with animals, both talking and dumb. Mystical and mundane. Even the Prince of the Mud and Crocella showed, flanked by giants.

So if Eliot _wasn’t_ going to show, all of Fillory would certainly know.

“No, Q. I’m sorry. It was a joke.” Julia took Quentin’s hand. “I don’t think he pulled you out of the Underworld to stand you up now. I forgot you’re so…”

Quentin squeezed Julia’s hand and nodded absently as if he wasn’t concentrating on his breathing so he wouldn’t have a panic attack.

Then the music began to play, and within moments Quentin was smiling stupidly because it was _K-pop_ and that was just so Eliot. The opening strains were just a woman’s sweet breathy voice over tinkling piano as Eliot appeared at the end of the aisle with Margo at his side. He hadn’t let Quentin see his outfit for the day or even told him anything more than the color scheme—Quentin in peach, El in plum.

That simple descriptor wasn’t enough to account for what Quentin now beheld.

To call El’s amazing suit-gown-outfit-thing _plum_ was an understatement. His dark curls were perfectly styled, his high cheekbones were flushed, and the deep V of his red-and-purple ombre silk vest-thing exposed a lot of well-groomed chest hair and soft skin draped with beautiful necklaces. Over that he wore a deep purple brocade tuxedo-y jacket, but it was so Eliotified that Quentin wasn’t sure it was _actually_ a tuxedo _or_ a jacket. It was kind of both things, and it was worn on his shoulders and back and perfectly tailored, so surely it was? But the strangest and most regal part of it all was the huge fucking skirt-gown-thing in the same red-and-purple ombre as his vest. He looked like a juicy ripe plum, if juicy ripe plums were tall, lanky, and stylish.

As the music’s beat kicked in, El and Margo started down the aisle, both of them strutting like it was a catwalk. Margo’s outfit was far more sedate than Eliot’s, but the crown she wore made plain that this was no ordinary wedding and she was no ordinary escort down the aisle. As they stalked closer, the music soared, magically amplified, and that honey-sweet voice sang a few words in English: _you’re the only one, babe…_

Then Eliot was so close, so beautiful, with his long train trailing behind him. The damn thing had to be 30 feet long, it was tended by tiny fluffy kittens—no doubt sentient ones—and Eliot was taking his time, seeming to relish every eye turned on him. When they’d started planning, Quentin had assumed they’d just meet at the altar or walk down the aisle together no big deal, but El… Well. He wanted his moment. Several of them.

Ever since High King Margo officially declared El and Fen’s divorce, Eliot had been obsessed with holding a huge wedding to “celebrate our fucking love, Q” and Quentin couldn’t do anything but go with it.

Then that lovely voice sang _Heaven, heaven, heaven, heaven…_ And it was. Quentin had died, and this was his heaven.

Eliot smiled at Quentin, their gazes locking, and there was so much in his gleaming eyes. Love, mischief, and—as Eliot raked his stare over Quentin head to toe and back up—unmistakable desire. This was it for Quentin, for both of them. Their endgame. The happy ending Quentin had never, ever really believed he’d get.

 _This_ was the beauty of all life, and now he knew what that looked like, what it could be, what it would be again. Quentin, Eliot, their kids and their friends and the big, complicated, blended family Quentin had never realized he’d need this badly.

As Eliot reached the altar, he and Margo exchanged soft words, brows pressed together as they whispered, and then El kissed her forehead and turned the full force of his attention on Quentin as if no one else existed.

From the front row, Josh burst into noisy tears, and Fen chuckled as she stroked his back at the corner of Quentin’s peripheral vision.

Quentin took Eliot’s hands, as much to steady himself as anything else. His mind flashed on that devastating moment when Penny had taken Quentin to his own vigil. Seeing Eliot come in. Alive. He’d survived. And then he’d taken a bite of that peach and sacrificed it to the fire.

Quentin had thought that was the end, and he was going to try to make it all enough. Enough that Eliot had taken Alice’s hand. That Julia had gotten back her magic.

In that moment, his death had seemed to bring everyone together.

And so he hadn’t fought, but he’d wanted to give Eliot some peace because he seemed to be hurting.

And now Quentin was back, and they were here.

Janet-Margo floating flowers around herself in her peach dress. Fennel standing proudly in a mini-me version of Eliot’s gown, holding the rings, waiting to be of service.

Julia cleared her throat. “On Earth, at Brakebills, and with hedge witches, the common refrain was that magic came from pain. That it was only through pain that we could realize our potential and be our best.

“And so it seemed true. We’ve all suffered. Life is pain; that is part of it. But as we all stand here today, together, celebrating the union of Eliot and Quentin in matrimony I deem holy, I have another theory: Magic comes from love.

“My path to goddess started in pain, an act of violence that was all but unbearable. But it was acts of love, of kindness, of Quentin helping me recover my shade, through saving lives and service to others motivated by love that the real flame of the divine was born.”

She pushed her hair back as she looked between them.

“The most powerful magic is cooperative magic, and so it was in cooperation, and a lot of banging”—Julia grinned—“that Eliot was able to punch a hole in the Underworld and keep Quentin here. It’s out of love that Quentin sought you. It is love that unites the kingdom today. Love for each other. Love for Fillory. Love for your found family, and love that lasted generations here and unified us all to rescue our dear Janet-Margo.

“Love that sustained Fen in the Fairy world, that recovered your daughter Fennel. These aren’t just powerful magics; these are miracles. You two are miracles, and your love has defied death forty-one times now.

“It’s not our pain that defines us. It’s our love. That is the most powerful magic there is, and the two of you here prove that.”

Julia turned her gaze to Kady and then Penny, who both nodded with her.

“So now is normally where we do vows ‘til death do you part, but we all know that in your particular case, that’s not quite true, is it?” Julia grinned and reached out to touch both of their shoulders. Power surged through Quentin, a loving gift from a loving goddess. “Eliot, you had something prepared?”

Smiling, Eliot squeezed Quentin’s hands and stared into his eyes, his expression somehow both wry and soft. “Q, from the moment I saw you, I thought you were the cutest little nerd in the world. Over the years, you’ve become more than that, but you’ve never been _less_ than that. We’ve had our share of bad decisions and outright mistakes, but somehow we’re here today anyway. Somehow, our love is enough.”

Eliot paused as his voice caught. Even now, he hated being too sincere in public.

“I never thought I was going to marry for love,” he said, making it sound casual. “I always thought I would marry a terribly wealthy widow and poison her once she made me her sole heir, like a Lifetime movie.” Eliot sniffed, obviously damming emotion. “But then there was you, and us, and I… I loved our life here, Q. I loved waking up with you and working that fucking puzzle every day. I loved raising a son with you, becoming ever more Fillorian, our lives on earth ever farther away. You were enough. Our love was enough. Even when we had nothing else, it was enough.”

Averting his gaze to stare at a floral arrangement, Eliot continued, as if too overwhelmed to meet Quentin’s eyes. His grip tightened on Quentin’s hands as if drawing strength from him. “It was enough to solve the puzzle, enough to set into motion generations of Coldwater-Waughs. And it was enough to bring you back from the Underworld because I cou—” He sniffed again, sharper, and pulled a face like he was forcing himself not to display emotion. In a bare whisper, he said, “I couldn’t live without you, Quentin Coldwater. This time when we go, we go together.”

Then, a little louder, he said, “Peaches and plums, motherfucker, in holy matrimony. Forever. It’s a promise.”

Eliot was a little blurry because Quentin’s eyes were full. He sniffled and clung to Eliot’s hands. He thought about what Julia said. Magic not coming from pain, how sacrifice had always been hallowed, that misery seemed to be the only pathway to greater power or better art.

And yet, and yet, in life he’d never been more than a middling magician. Despite a lifetime of depression and being haunted by his own brain, he’d never been as powerful as he was with Eliot.

A couple of tears spilled over as Quentin tried to pull his thoughts together enough to articulate his feelings. “Eliot, that moment I first saw you, I knew my life was going to change. I didn’t realize in how many ways.”

He took a moment, pulling his hand back to wipe his eyes. “Sorry. God. Um. I wasn’t even sure you were real. I wasn’t sure of anything. I guess, for a long time. I knew life was different, that I was different. And you were always there. You held my hand. You helped me every step of the way. You had faith in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

“With this mosaic, with… with the sacrifice I made that killed me.” Quentin sneaked a peek at Alice, giving her an apologetic look. “We could’ve found another way. You were right.”

Quentin looked back to Eliot. “I guess I just… I didn’t understand. I didn’t know that I had so much to fight for. I thought I could die and that it would have been a good life. That I had friends, that I changed lives. I thought the world would be fine without me in it. That I’d served my purpose.”

This was getting dark for a wedding, but feelings were pouring out. “But you needed me. And Fillory needed me, and my life is worth more than a sacrifice. It’s worth this family. Worth this love. Worth sustaining all of this. This is your gift to me and to the world, El.

“I spent one lifetime with you, and I want to spend this one with you, and the next, and the next and the next. Every time. Peaches and plums, motherfucker.”

“Motherfucker,” Eliot echoed, reaching out to shove Quentin’s shoulder gently. He grinned at him, though his grin looked a little watery.

From the audience, Josh sobbed.

Eliot looked at Josh, rolled his eyes, and then looked to Julia. “Can we get on with this ceremony? I have a groom to tongue, a bitchin’ reception with custom cocktails, and a honeymoon calling my name.”

“Should I ask what kind of rings you’re exchanging?” Julia grinned at them both and waggled her brows.

Quentin chuckled and nodded to Fennel to bring the rings. She took her moment to shine just as seriously as Eliot had, though scaled down and so adorable Quentin could hardly believe she was real. She was so much like him that sometimes he couldn’t help but stare. And like him, she’d make a joke of it and ask for cuddles.

More than once he wondered which of them was the adult.

Quentin knelt, picked up the rings, and whispered his thanks.

Fennel held out her hand for a tip.

“Um…” Quentin checked his pockets and found only “safety lube” in case of surprise caging.

Janet-Margo gave a long-suffering sigh and took Fennel by the hand to drag her to the seats as everyone giggled.

Quentin handed Eliot his ring and then took Eliot’s left hand to slide it on. Instead of the usual vows, he whispered a spell in Egyptian for protection and connection. Eliot sniffed hard as Quentin met his gaze again, his dear face pinched with feeling. His lips moved silently, an _I love you_ meant for no one but Quentin.

Then, brow furrowed, Eliot took Quentin’s hand to slide on his ring in turn. It tingled with magic as it went on, obviously enchanted, and as Eliot chanted in Avestan, the engraved platinum band glowed and warmed. Eliot closed his eyes like he was praying, and he all but hummed with magical energy. Then he opened his eyes, lifted Quentin’s left hand to his lips, and kissed the ring. A soft pulse of heat flared through Quentin’s body and then dissipated into a pleasant sensation of belonging.

Eliot smiled at him and leaned in to whisper in Quentin’s ear, “Triple bonding, bitch.” His lips tickled Quentin’s skin, and then he straightened and stepped back, beaming like he’d gotten away with something. As tightly as they’d entwined their magic and life forces, it would take a lot more than High King Margo’s divorce decree to separate them.

More than death.

Quentin rolled his eyes and chuckled, but he was thrilled that Eliot _wanted_ to be bonded to him. Let alone triple bonded. His relationships had gone from painful to obligations and Quentin never wanted to be that to Eliot. But if he was still trying to get in a little extra bondage without leather… Well, seemed like Eliot was kinda into him.

“Wait! Wait! I object!”

The female voice was familiar, but Quentin couldn’t place it. He turned to the guests, brows drawn together. Who would object?

A redhead waved madly with one hand as she ran up the aisle. “Wait!”

Poppy.

Quentin stared at her in amused surprise, not sure what to make of this stunt.

She pulled away a scarf she was wearing and revealed a sleeping baby.

Eliot and Quentin looked at each other.

Poppy shoved the child into Quentin’s arms. “It’s yours. I lied.”

“Um. What?” The hairs on the back of Quentin’s neck rose. He fucking knew it. Why did he ever believe anything that Poppy said? Especially now. He looked down at the baby for any obvious tells that this couldn’t be his child, like scales or feathers, because who knew with Poppy? She’d said it was a dragon at first.

“You know how babies are made, right?” Poppy set to arranging her clothes, almost completely oblivious to everyone’s horrified silence. “We did that. It’s a simple ritual, but pretty common.”

Quentin rolled his eyes for real this time. “Look, Poppy, I’m not… I mean, we’re already married. And I’m not…with you…”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Who asked? Look, I’ve got this great opportunity with the Thames Dragon. Can you believe it? The Thames! Jolly ol’ England! One of the most famous dragons in the world, and she wants _me._ ”

“So I… can’t be married to Eliot?” Quentin shook his head, trying to figure out what was going on. Why was Poppy always so confusing?

“I don’t care about that, but I can’t really have a baby right now, you know? Lot of hours, lot of underwater time. And… I mean, it’s the Thames Dragon. He doesn’t pay very well, so I can’t afford a sitter. So, anyway… Hey, congratulations!” Poppy pointed back where she’d come from. “I gotta get going, though. Good to see you.”

Quentin held the baby up to his chest, sniffing its head before he could really take in that she was leaving already.

“Wait… what is… their name?” Quentin shouted.

“Oh… his name is Draco! I mean… what else?” Poppy waved, then seeming to sense that someone might stop her, she vanished.

“Oh Q.” Eliot gave him a fond look and reached out to caress little Draco’s head with a gentle hand that had practiced well on Ted. In a stage whisper, he said, “You put your dick in crazy. Without protection, Q. You’re not supposed to put your dick in crazy.”

Not that Eliot looked anything but charmed by the situation.

“If he stopped doing that, it would be the end of your sex life,” Margo shot back, grinning.

“You said to find a new life partner to go on a quest with.” Quentin grinned and leaned down to kiss Draco’s little forehead. He whispered to the baby, “You don’t have to keep the name of a Slytherin if you don’t want to.”

He looked up at Eliot, pleased that he wasn’t fleeing in terror at the prospect of another addition to their family.

Peripherally, he caught the look of longing on Fen’s face as she stared at the baby. Did she get this time with Fennel at this size? Quentin gestured to her in question if she wanted to hold the baby for him while they finished the ceremony.

Fen leapt to her feet despite her sleek dress and beamed at Quentin as she held out her arms, making grabby hands for the baby. Draco stretched and yawned as he settled into Fen’s arms, nestling in against her neck drowsily. He seemed pretty bombproof, but Quentin guessed Poppy’s kid would kind of have to be.

Then Fen leaned in to kiss Quentin’s cheek, surprising him, before she tipped her face up for Eliot, who bent down and let her kiss his cheek too. She raised her brows at them, obviously bubbling over with excitement, and then bounced a little and hustled back to her seat, snuggling baby Draco for all they were worth.

Eliot watched impassively and then curled his finger under Quentin’s chin and looked into his eyes. There was something shadowed there now, some lurking pain, and his voice rasped when he spoke. “I was wrong, Q. I was scared. I’m not now. You taught me to be brave, and bold, and to reach out and ask for what I need, what I want, even if I feel like I can’t possibly deserve it. No other life partners now, no adventures without me.”

A little smile curved El’s lips then, and he murmured, “Besides, we’ll be too busy raising all these damn kids to get into mischief.”

“Thought that’s why we were living in the castle. Free babysitting so we can get into mischief.” Quentin rolled to his toes and kissed Eliot, cupping his face to hold him close and relishing his taste.

“Oh, I guess you’re at the kissing part now. Don’t mind me.” Julia laughed. “I now pronounce you Eliot and Quentin. You’re kissing, so, on to the reception and your recreational licking.”

“Mm, recreational licking,” Eliot mumbled against Quentin’s mouth. They laughed, and Eliot drew Quentin into his arms and hid his face against Quentin’s hair, just holding him for long moments.

From the audience came the sound of Josh laugh-crying.

Then Eliot pulled away, took Quentin’s hand, and turned them to face the audience. He lifted their joined hands in the air in triumph and shouted, “I got me a Quentin! Now everyone, proceed to the reception area so we can get absolutely smashed.”

Eliot pointed to Janet-Margo and Fennel and added, “Not you two. You’re the designated drivers.”

 

~*~

This was everything Eliot had ever dreamed of—and then some, if he was honest with himself. His heart ached, painfully full, and his face hurt from smiling. It was almost more than he could bear.

When Margo, Fen, and Josh came up to them after the ceremony and Margo hugged him, it brought Eliot close to completely unacceptable tears, and then Fen piled on and hugged him too, still cradling sleepy Draco in one arm, and all he could think was how grateful he was that she was happy for him. How happy _he_ was that she had people to love her like she deserved. How happy he was they’d still be a family.

That she loved Margo made it better. The last thing in the world Eliot wanted to do was leave Margo behind to pursue a life with Quentin. That Margo’s life was full to bursting with running Fillory and managing her two lovers eased Eliot’s mind.

He kissed Margo on the lips, a fleeting touch that meant more than words, and then kissed Fen too, letting go of what they’d had and embracing what they’d have in future. When Josh stood there looking awkwardly delighted for them, Eliot kissed him too. Josh full-on blushed, and Fen elbowed him in amusement.

Then Eliot slipped his arm back around Q and held him close against his side, glorying in the moment as the guests flowed through the beautiful, gently lit space with its sweet aroma of sun-drenched grass and fruit, like every good smell of the Southern Orchard had been amplified here just for them. Servers with trays of wine and cocktails circulated, passing out alcoholic delights to adults and non-alcoholic delights to children. Eliot had crafted just the right recipes for today, and if the adult beverages were potent, the virgin variations sparkled just as bright. His special girls wouldn’t have to sit out the fun.

A sweetheart table stood at the head of the Fairy glass dance floor, which glittered with rainbow lights and around whose border more of Josh’s gorgeous plants bloomed. Overhead, more flowers draped from the peach-and-plum silk-curtained ceiling, huge bunches of them that made the large, mostly open space feel personal and intimate. Some of the flower varieties responded to the soft music playing from somewhere, swaying in time. Clustered around the floor were beautifully wrought tables and chairs for the guests to sit and eat, and Hoberman had worked with Eliot to develop the perfect menu.

Honestly, as much as Eliot hadn’t understood what Margo saw in him, this whole wedding would’ve fallen apart without Josh’s skills. He was a better match for Margo than Eliot would ever have guessed: funny, raunchy, fun-loving…and rather remarkably intuitive and understanding. With Fen in the mix, they had all their bases covered.

“Q,” Eliot murmured, looking down into Quentin’s eyes and trying to contain his smile. “Are you as happy as I am? Or do I need to drag you behind a tree and get you that way?”

“I’m not going to tell you _not_ to drag me behind a tree, but I am very happy.” Quentin leaned against Eliot. His poor little introvert nerd boy already seemed worn out by all the attention.

Seeming to need a pick-me-up, Q plucked a cocktail from a passing tray and took a sip. “Mm. Wow, that’s really good, Eliot. Fruity and refreshing.”

They’d started toward their table when Quentin paused. When Eliot turned to see what the hold up was, he caught sight of Alice and Todd looking eager to speak.

Sighing, Eliot plucked a cocktail of his own from the next tray to go by and spared a moment to be thankful he’d changed from his long gown into a pair of snug plum leather laced trousers and tall boots. It would be impossible to move in this crowd with a train attended by kittens. Drama for the catwalk, pragmatism for the dance floor.

“Did you want to—” Eliot gestured toward Alice with the hand holding his cocktail and slipped his other hand into Quentin’s waistband to grope his ass a little.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.” Quentin looked nothing at all like he wanted to stop and talk. His expression was already pained. It seemed like Quentin didn’t realize that was how he usually looked at Alice.

And Alice didn’t seem to notice how she tended to square up against Quentin’s anxiety. Before a word was even said, it looked like they were already fighting.

But then Alice reached out to take Quentin’s hand. “Thank you for what you said.”

“It was true. You were right. You usually are. We could’ve figured something else out.” Quentin’s jaw flexed as if he was eating words.

“Doesn’t matter now. You’re happy. That’s all I ever really wanted for you, Q.”

“That’s what I want for you, too. Is Todd…?” Quentin nodded his head in Todd’s direction, where he hung back, probably trying not to get kicked out of Fillory again.

“Oh, no. No, nothing like that. He just wanted to come to apologize again and to be supportive. I’m… I’m just me right now. Me and the Library.” She smiled happily as if that really was her dream date.

“You’re not lonely?” Quentin swallowed, guilt plain on his face.

“No, Q. I’m not. I help people every day. I’m expanding horizons and I’m… I’m seeing the good in magic. I’m seeing the good in me, parts of me I thought I lost. Parts I never thought I had. Learning to forgive myself, and my parents. Learning to let people love me and to love them without expectations.” She released Quentin’s hand and pulled free the book she was holding under her arm to give to him. “Brought you a wedding present.”

“Oh, thank you.” Quentin took the dense volume. It had so much magic in it that it sparked to Quentin’s touch. “ _Arcana Arcanorum_.”

“Some pages are in the hand of the Zwei Vogel scribe herself.” Alice smiled shyly. “Since you’re a demigod now, I thought the book would be of more use to you. And safer with you. No more poison room.”

“Wow, Alice, that’s…a fantastic gift.” Eliot licked his lips, a little nervous, and gave her a hesitant smile. “I, um… While you’re here, I wanted to…” He flailed internally, trying to find the right words. They’d been friends once, before he and Margo slept with Quentin, and he’d been trying to figure out how to make it work with her ever since.

Finally he said, softly, a little flippant, “I just want to thank you for sanding off Q’s rough edges before I had to spend fifty years with him solving an impossible puzzle. I always… You know I always wanted him, right from the start, even when you just thought he was…whatever you thought before you went to Brakebills South together. But you went through a lot with him. And you changed each other, in good ways and bad, and you grew together and grew apart like any young couple. I know, without…”

Tentatively, more sincere, Eliot continued. “Without your influence on him, without you taking on the hard work of being his first love, I don’t know if I could’ve handled him. I’m… Well. Everyone knows how I am. And you know Q. Things get intense—and Q’s always intense—and I get cagey. That whole lifetime we had together… We were never as honest with each other as we should’ve been. Never rocked the boat. Now we get a do-over, and I… I’m grateful, I guess, is what I’m saying. Grateful that Q and I get another chance, and grateful you made that first lifetime so beautifully livable.”

He lifted his glass to her then, raised a brow, and drank to Alice Quinn.

“Jesus, I’m standing right here.” Quentin looked between them and shook his head. His cheeks were bright red, as were Alice’s. They weren’t used to anyone speaking so frankly, apparently.

Alice pushed up her glasses, sneaking a look at Quentin before turning her attention more fully on Eliot. “I was really angry and really…hurt. And I’ll admit that I was hurt that Quentin came to you. I thought that we were…”

She gave a little shrug and looked down. “But you deserve to be happy. You and Quentin do. And I do, too. This isn’t what I want. Not right now. Maybe not ever. And three kids?”

Alice looked up and let out a little laugh. When had Eliot last heard that? She smiled, though her eyes were glassy. “You both deserve this and deserve all of this happiness. And I can tell Quentin’s complications make you happy. I love him.”

She turned to Quentin. “I do love you. I love you so much.”

Quentin looked between scared and hurt, his face collapsed. “I’m sorry.”

Alice sniffed and shook her head. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m relieved. Because we can still love each other and be there for each other.”

She took one of Quentin’s hands and one of Eliot’s and squeezed them both. “If anything, it takes some of the sting out of that original incident. Feeling like this was how it was meant to be… It helps me feel like it wasn’t me. I can stop blaming myself, because you two had this destiny together.”

Quentin looked horrified. “It was never your fault. Never, ever.”

He released her hand to pull her into a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She let out a soft sob on his shoulder. “I know, Q. I know. I don’t… This isn’t what I meant for this to… I just want you to know how happy I am for you and how happy I am with my life the way it is now. I’m… I love you, but I’m relieved that I don’t have to find space for…”

Quentin squeezed her, nodding as he pulled away. “Yeah. I’m glad, and I love you, too.”

Alice dabbed her eyes lightly and then looked to Eliot like she wanted a hug. “And I love you, too, Eliot.”

“Oh. Wow. We’re… We’re doing this?” Eliot gingerly grasped his cocktail glass as he leaned down to wrap his arms around Alice. He wasn’t sure how long he should hold her, so he kept his embrace light and followed her lead, not wanting to cause some kind of incident. As he pulled away, he smiled crookedly. “Love you too, Alice Quinn. You should go get drunk on my excellent plum-and-thyme prosecco cocktails, mack on someone inadvisable, and get crazy laid before you head back to your whole strict librarian routine. That’s what you do at an ex’s wedding, right? Live a little.”

She laughed again. “I don’t want to stay too long. Too many people looking at me like the scorned ex. And don’t assume I am not getting crazy laid Elliot Waugh-Coldwater. My job puts me in contact with a lot of interesting people. Your little story got me more interested in the sex magic.”

Alice winked.

Quentin’s eyes widened, and he looked at Eliot.

“See you guys around. I’ll just have a cocktail, do a quick mingle, and get out. Think Todd wants a word.” Alice cupped her hand at the side of her mouth. “Don’t worry, Todd is not one of those interesting people.”

She gave them a little wave, then turned and grabbed a cocktail before heading over to Julia to apparently reconnect.

“Well that was relatively painless,” Eliot observed, turning his gaze on Quentin and pressing a kiss to his temple as Todd bumbled over.

He probably walked, not bumbled, but this was Todd, and Eliot really couldn’t be bothered to look and ascertain one way or another with Quentin right there and smelling so damn good.

“Hey. Um.” Todd waved and waited for them to look at him. When Eliot sighed internally and directed his attention to Todd, the younger magician smiled. “Congratulations, and best wishes. You both really deserve this. You’ve—Well, you’ve done a lot for…everyone. For magic, for Fillory, for… I mean, Quentin, really just such a hero for nerds everywhere. Eliot, you know I’ve always looked up to you. You’re just…”

Todd trailed off as Eliot raised a brow. He tried a smile, like that would disarm Eliot. When it failed, he just went on.

“I’m sorry. About…everything. I really, really… Plover was so…persuasive. I got turned around. I didn’t…”

Eliot waved it off with the hand holding his cocktail glass and then had another sip, since it was already in motion. “You’re easily manipulatable, Todd. It’s one of your most endearing and useful qualities and also your absolute worst. You’re like unfired modeling clay—really fun to play with, but the moment someone comes along and messes with the design, it’s like the first artist was never there.”

“Are you—” Todd looked actually offended, and you know what? Good for him. “Are you saying you liked me because you could manipulate me?”

Eliot sighed. “Oh Todd. That is the most Todd thing you’ve ever said in my hearing. I don’t doubt you’ve said Todder things, but that’s truly noteworthy.” Then, noticing how Quentin was looking at him, Eliot gentled his voice. “But Janet-Margo says you made Whitespire bearable, and she forgives you, so I suppose maybe we can work up to being friends someday.”

“We can be friends?” Todd brightened so fast it might have made Eliot laugh under other circumstances.

“Someday, Todd. Not today. Margo’s still pissed.”

Quentin gave Todd a shrug. “Yeah, you probably want to give her a wide berth. She’s gotten a real taste for beheadings since that night.”

That was obviously not true, but Todd looked horrified. His hand went reflexively to his throat.

“But seriously, Todd. You seem like a nice guy, and you’ve got a pretty good ass, so you should, you know, concentrate on being Todd for a while. Go back, finish up school.” Quentin gave him a sweet smile as he passed off his empty cocktail and got another one.

 _Good ass?_ How many of those drinks had Q had?

Though, really, Eliot shouldn’t be surprised Q found Todd somewhat appealing. It was possible he had a type, and while Eliot was the paragon, Todd at least nominally belonged to Eliot’s particular species of lanky, stylish brown-eyed men with a penchant for partying.

“Um.” Todd was blushing. He grinned dumbly at Quentin. “Yeah, that’s probably good advice. Brakebills was pretty happy to have me back, and Dean Fogg really does better when he has a competent assistant. So congratulations again, and I’ll just…” He glanced toward Margo, momentary panic crossing his face, and backed away. “See you guys around.”

“Mm,” Eliot replied, noncommittal. Then Todd took off, and Eliot leaned over to whisper in Quentin’s ear. “Good ass?” Mimicking Quentin, he said, “Jesus, I’m standing right here.”

“Someone said that, and I looked and, you know, I mean…” Quentin blushed and shrugged. He shifted closer to Eliot and then gave his ass a quick but welcome squeeze. “That’s the only nice thing I’ve heard anyone say about him.”

A few yards away, Janet-Margo let out a squeal. She ran at Todd and swept him into a big, enthusiastic hug, which was pretty surprising, given her general moody-teen-queen act, but they _had_ seen some shit together. Todd seemed just as happy to see her.

“On that note…” Quentin tugged Eliot toward their table, exchanging pleasantries with other guests as they went. For Quentin, he was positively genial, though he was clearly leaning a bit on the custom cocktails to remain sociable. He wasn’t sloppily drunk, though; he seemed to be using the alcohol as Eliot did, taking the edge off his awkwardness.

They were almost to their chairs when Julia stopped them. “I want to stay and embarrass you with an off-color toast, but as a goddess, I’m not sure it’s appropriate.”

Quentin set down his cocktail and gave Julia a warm hug. “I can’t believe you’re a literal goddess. But you’ve always been one to me.”

Julia laughed and gave him an extra squeeze before she pulled back. “I can’t believe you’re married. Good job nailing Eliot down before he realized what a nerd you are.”

“Oh I realize. It’s part of his charm.” Eliot smiled and held out his own arms to Julia, giving her a small, sincere snuggle before stepping back to Quentin’s side. “If he wasn’t such a huge nerd, I would have to reveal my own secret nerd tendencies instead of trusting him to nerd out to the fullest extent imaginable at the appropriate times. As it is, my own nerdiness remains private, known only to the gods”—he inclined his head to Julia—“and, well, I suppose the people who knew me in grade school.”

Julia took Quentin’s hand and grinned. “We were nerds together. In grade school. It’s said with love.”

She looked up at Eliot and gave his cheek a quick stroke. “You’re not going to miss being a king?”

Eliot shrugged and smiled wickedly. “The people of this great land chose High King Bambi. I support her completely. Besides, I’m still High King of Quentin’s ass.”

Julia laughed. “Fair enough. And you’ve got your own little kingdom to look out for now.” She looked over her shoulder at where Fen stood, still cuddling and cooing over baby Draco.

Then she looked to Q. “When I selected your present… Well, I know you’re a demigod, and you’re happy with that. But when you’re ready to further your journey, when you’re both ready for your next adventure, you’ll know what to do with this.”

Julia took Quentin’s hand and with her other placed a brown seedpod in his palm. It didn’t look special, but it must be something. Why else would she have bothered?

Quentin brought it up to his face, brow furrowed as if he was mystified. “Thanks, Julia.”

“It’s from the Drowned Garden,” she said, looking at both of them meaningfully.  

“Hoberman will be _so_ jealous.” Eliot smiled, though the consequence was lost on him. He curled a lock of Q’s ponytail around his finger and murmured, “Our next adventure, huh, Q? Sounds like a honeymoon idea to me.”

Quentin appeared to find what she said significant, and he gently slipped the seedpod into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Julia. Yeah, honeymoon. Guess we can’t exactly just go to Bora Bora, can we?”

“Not exactly.” Julia gave Quentin a sad look as she pushed her hair behind her ear. “You’re a magical being now. You’re very tied to Fillory magically. But, you know, enough power, and you can pretty much go anywhere you want. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

She mimed a key at her lips, turned it, and tossed it away.

Then, just as mysteriously, she turned and walked to Kady and Penny. They welcomed her with open arms and little kisses that made obvious how all that was playing out. Kady and Penny 23 seemed to have worked through some of their issues, at least enough to serve their new goddess compatibly. Eliot couldn’t help speculating, just a little, on what form that service took.

He was a pervert, okay? He’d own that.

Retrieving another drink, he smiled at Quentin, just dumbly admiring how handsome he was, how pure and good and true. Eliot had done horrible things in his life, but Quentin _loved_ him. All Eliot could do was love him back from the cold, dark bottom of his mean girl heart. (But really, it wasn’t so cold and dark anymore, and even Margo wasn’t really a mean girl these days.)

They finally made their way to their table, which seemed to be a sign for everyone to take their seats. Josh’s dishes astonished and amazed, particular to each species down (or up) to the giant snapping turtles.

After the meal and a couple of awkward toasts, Quentin and Eliot cut the luscious peach and brandy nine-layer wedding cake. Despite all the unexpected guests, there appeared to be enough cake for everyone, and the cocktails flowed freely. It was really, really perfect. Even Quentin seemed happy, and that was all Eliot wanted deep down, beneath all his extravagant wishes for things to be just so.

Then it was time for their first dance. The stage was cleared as Kady stood to announce them.

“Tonight, we gather together to celebrate Quentin and Eliot Coldwater-Waugh’s wedding. Those who know them best know how long overdue this actually is. The rest of you will have to trust us.” Kady’s warmth elicited a few laughs, and she smiled brightly at them, eyes sparkling. She seemed…content. Whatever pain she still carried lay hidden beneath the glittering surface adorned with red lipstick and a gorgeous pale-yellow gown.

Motioning toward the dance floor, she waited pointedly for Eliot to stand and escort Quentin to its center. Eighties music emanated from above, drifting down everywhere from beyond the flowers over their heads. Eliot laughed as he drew Quentin close against his chest, tucking his chin over Q’s head as they swayed.

In her strong, sultry voice, she sang, _“Another night slowly closes in, and I feel so lonely. Touching heat freezing on my skin, I pretend you still hold me. I’m going crazy. I’m losing sleep. I’m in too far. I’m in way too deep over youuuu. I can’t believe you’re go-oo-one. You were the first… You’ll be the last…”_

Eliot hadn’t told Quentin he’d picked this for their first dance, and Q’s awkward pleasure was exactly the reaction Eliot had hoped for. He sang along with Kady, softly, just for Quentin’s ears. _“Wherever you go, I’ll be with you. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Whenever you need someone to lay your heart and head upon… Remember after the fire, after all the rain, I will be the fla-aaa-ame._ ”

Quentin chuckled and squeezed Eliot tight, letting him lead. “Cheap Trick isn’t quite what I expected, but it’s possibly the most perfect thing ever.”

He lifted his head and gave Eliot a long, slow kiss as the guests whistled and cheered. Kady’s impassioned singing carried even beyond the good-natured ruckus, and Eliot could feel the words sinking through him as Quentin’s lips moved against his own, her soaring claim, _“You’ll always be the o-ooo-one,”_ and Quentin was. Quentin was Eliot’s One, his soulmate. So cheesy, so dumb, and just a few years ago, Eliot would have jeered at the idea, but this…

This deserved sincerity, and patience, and trust. Quentin deserved it.

As their kiss ended, Eliot tucked Quentin’s head back against his chest and held him close as he looked out on the crowd and guided them in slow circles. Fennel and Janet-Margo stood at the edge of the dancefloor, looking so much like him and Q, so precious and perfect as they waited for their turn to dance. While Kady belted the final chorus, Penny and Julia watched her—and each other—with soft expressions. Fen sat with Margo and Josh, feeding little Draco from a bottle she’d somehow gotten from somewhere because she was a genius. When his gaze caught Margo’s, Eliot smiled at her, and when she smiled back and leaned against Josh, he felt it down to his toes.

It hit him then that he’d never go back to Brakebills, not for school. Quentin was bound to Fillory, a magical creature of a magical land. Eliot would never go back to his old life, his family in Indiana, the mundane existence he’d spent a lifetime running from. He was a new person now, Eliot Coldwater-Waugh, and Quentin was his key to that new life. He was surrounded by family of choice, by well-wishers and friends and giant snapping turtles who had promised not to eat him.

Suddenly, urgently, Eliot looked into Quentin’s eyes and whispered, “I love you, husband.”

“I love you, husband.” Quentin’s eyes were pre-soaked with tears, his cheeks were wet, and he was smiling so hard that his eyes crinkled up. Tears of joy from his depressed emo boy. “And our whole family. This isn’t what I thought Fillory would be. It’s so much better.”

It was perfect.


	21. The Magician’s Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some light, canon-related breathplay. Everything is happy and safe, promise.

After the reception, Eliot and Quentin said their temporary goodbyes to friends, family, and well-wishers, and then they rode on Fizzlesnip down to the harbor. The Muntjac waited for them, floating quietly in her moorings. Eliot had missed Q’s shipboard adventure last time—he’d been such a fool, hadn’t he?—and now he was going to reclaim that magic. They’d sail the seas of Fillory together, just the two of them and the charming Muntjac.

They’d packed light—it wasn’t as if they planned on wearing many clothes, honestly—and Eliot was looking forward to pounding on the bounding main. They both gave Fizzlesnip parting pets of his velvety snoot, and then it was just them and endless possibility.

“I think I’m going to have a bath,” Eliot said in what he imagined to be thinly veiled code for “I’m getting undressed now, and you’ll want to be present for soapy hijinks.” He smiled at Quentin as he backed toward the stairs to belowdecks.

Quentin seemed distracted though, and he just nodded, his nose already in that damn book Alice had given him. Well then. Eliot wouldn’t take that personally. It wasn’t a “no, Eliot, I don’t want to sex. I want to spend our honeymoon studying,” but rather a very Q behavior he’d become familiar with during their years at the Mosaic. Quentin was an introvert, and while Eliot was flying high and super jazzed after the massive party in their honor, Q probably needed to decompress.

So Eliot headed downstairs and filled the tub with fragrant bubbles and water just shy of too warm. He undressed alone, taking time to luxuriate in his slightly tipsy body. It felt good to be naked as the Muntjac left port, the ship gently rocking, the water sloshing in the huge tub. Taking his time, Eliot set about making himself irresistible, rubbing his bare skin down with the light, soothing oils by the bath. By the time he was done, he gleamed in the candlelight and his cock was half-hard. It was obviously Quentin’s cue to join him.

Scheming gently, Eliot headed up to the main deck to find Q curled up with that book below a hanging captain’s lamp. He didn’t notice Eliot immediately, so Eliot leaned against the wall and watched as Q’s expression flowed between amazement, frustration, confusion, and fascination. Whatever he was reading completely absorbed him.

What. A. Nerd.

Eliot smiled. God, he loved that dork.

He watched until Q seemed to reach a pause, and then he cleared his throat and sauntered over to perch in Quentin’s lap, giving him just enough time to rescue his book before Eliot overtook him. “Hello, stranger.”

“Oh, hey. Did I miss the bath?” It was as if Quentin had been napping and lost all track of time and place. He set the book aside with sweet reverence and then returned his hands to Eliot’s bare skin, rubbing his back and his legs. “I did miss the bath, huh?”

“No, baby boy, I just thought I’d get all naked and oiled up and come seduce you.” Eliot smiled as he leaned down to kiss Quentin’s mouth, lingering there for a moment before lifting his head. He caressed Q’s cheek and then reached down boldly to stroke his own cock. He glowed golden in the lamplight, and he knew Quentin wasn’t going to be able to hold out on him now.

“You mean sex just for fun? Not to escape something or keep me alive?” Quentin beamed as he looked down to watch Eliot fondling himself. He definitely had some real voyeuristic tendencies, at least when it came to watching Eliot.

But it appeared he couldn’t quite resist stroking Eliot himself. His other hand roamed over Eliot’s body, his back, his neck, his arms, as if he couldn’t get enough of touching him. Then he moved Eliot, turning his body to straddle Quentin.

Quentin pushed Eliot gently back with one hand, the other helping to ease Eliot backwards until Eliot’s palms rested on the ground. Once Eliot found his balance, Quentin sat up enough to then bend over and mouth the tip of Eliot’s cock.

“Mm, Q, acrobatic. Ambitious! I like it.” Eliot laughed and sighed in pleasure, appreciating the stretch of his muscles, the way the cocktails had left him limber and relaxed. As Quentin’s hot, wet tongue swirled over Eliot’s cock head, he groaned and squirmed encouragingly. “I _did_ run a beautiful bubble bath for us downstairs… If you want to get me hard and come ride me.”

“Did you?” Quentin nuzzled Eliot’s cock, not looking like he was in any rush to do anything but suck him and slide his hands over Eliot’s torso at the moment. Quentin gazed at him, his pale hair falling into his face as he hollowed his cheeks, pulling back before he slid forward again, seeming to relish taking his time.

Releasing Eliot’s cock once it was completely hard, Quentin burrowed his face against Eliot’s balls, sucking them softly as he teased that spot on his perineum. Apparently, Quentin had missed him while reading his book.

Honestly, Eliot wasn’t even sure how Quentin was maintaining this position, and the blood was rushing to Eliot’s head, but he was enjoying the hell out of himself. He spread his thighs wider and arched into Q’s mouth, yielding to whatever Quentin wanted. He could do that. They were married.

Just the thought of it made Eliot’s cock throb. He loved Quentin, and he was loved in return. It was official now, and Eliot couldn’t run from it. He’d jumped in with both feet. It felt fucking good.

He’d expected to feel trapped or…something. But he felt free, as if he’d thrown off the shackles of self-expectation. He’d risen above the limitations his family had drummed into him, the limitations he’d assumed from his early life. The heartbreak of Mike’s brainwashing and death, the wrongness of that first hookup with Quentin, the complications of the Mosaic and Arielle… And now it was just them. Just Quentin and Eliot, joined by choice and by a bond stronger than death.

And that _tongue_.

That wicked tongue and his sinful mouth, lavishing Eliot as if that was all he wanted to do. But the strange position must’ve been getting to him too, because he slid his hands up Eliot’s back and helped him sit back up on Quentin’s lap and grinned up at him. “So, you said something about me riding you in the bath? Think you might be hard enough now?”

Quentin was always sexy, but it was especially fun when he was really feeling himself. The knowledge Eliot had gotten him there, that this was Quentin feeling secure and married and happy, set butterflies fluttering in Eliot’s belly, a strange feeling Eliot recalled from when he first laid eyes on him and called him by the unlikeliest name he could think of.

Quentin Coldwater.

There was something special about him, about the way he looked at Eliot so helplessly and followed him and Margo around. Not one of those guys who was too cool for magic. Quite the opposite. Somehow, that had been irresistible to Eliot.

Had there been residual feelings from the other timelines? They would never know.

Nor did it matter now, because now Quentin was his, and Quentin looked at him with absolute adoration that totally disarmed Eliot. He had no defense against Quentin’s earnest affection, his big-hearted intensity and need. All he wanted was to give Quentin everything.

Somehow, that always ended up being the right thing to do.

“Yeah,” Eliot answered belatedly, dazed, smiling at Quentin and drunk on that mischievous look. “Yeah, I’m hard enough for you, Q. It’s only ever a matter of time, isn’t it?”

Because it was. No matter how bad or hopeless things seemed, it always worked out, and it always came back to this, back to Eliot gazing at Quentin and aching to be part of him.

Standing on slightly weak knees, Eliot held out his hands to Quentin and pulled him up before dipping him dramatically and covering his face and mouth in kisses. He chuckled as he peppered Quentin’s eyebrows with little pecks and then nuzzled down into his neck, nomming on his throat and probably leaving little red marks.

Quentin moaned as he shifted his weight. Something hard pressed between their chests, and when Eliot looked down, it was that damn book. He was tempted to toss it, but Quentin straightened, pulled away, and did a playfully sexy walk down the stairs, pausing partway to take a couple of steps back up. He gave Eliot a sultry look and then vanished below deck.

Huh.

By the time Eliot followed him, the book was on the desk and Quentin was getting undressed. He pulled off his jacket, then plucked the seed pod from the pocket and put it on the desk next to the book. The book threw itself open, but Quentin didn’t appear to notice, caught up now in giving Eliot a show as he started unbuttoning his shirt.

Magic books were great and all, but they had nothing on naked Quentin, so Eliot approached with a little smile and an admiring glance, eye-fucking Q deliberately. When Quentin started blushing, Eliot’s job was done. Except it wasn’t, because he kept doing it so Quentin’s blush would eventually spread down his chest and he’d be hot to the touch.

Embarrassing Q was a really satisfying and fulfilling life goal, and Eliot was committed to pursuing it whole-heartedly.

“Look at you,” Eliot teased, reaching down to squeeze his own cock as Quentin stripped. “You’re shameless, aren’t you? You’re just gonna be the biggest slut now we’re married, aren’t you? Gonna be so dirty for Daddy. I can already tell.”

“Me? I’m not a slut. I’m a virgin.” Quentin’s eyes sparkled as he slipped off his shirt, letting it drop.

For a moment, Eliot thought _oh, are we playing that game again_? And then he remembered that Quentin indeed had a whole new body.

Of course, the concept of virginity was mental anyway, but it was still rather fun to think of deflowering Quentin all over again. At least this time he shouldn’t be _quite_ so tense at the start.

Quentin toed out of his shoes and turned, teasing Eliot by flashing him with his naked ass.

How had he missed that Quentin had apparently been saving up for this during the wedding planning? Probably because Quentin had played a good defense by staying on the offense. Sneaky nerd.

“Quentin… Are you telling me that I’ve been the bottom for like three months just so you could save your virgin ass for our wedding night? Is that—” Eliot blinked and snorted. “Have I understood correctly that you _weren’t_ just excited to make me blow holes in things with my juiced-up telekinesis so you could major mend them? Because I really thought you just so enjoyed the powers of your demigod spunk that you were intent on seeing what new havoc we could wreak and repair.”

He laughed and then conceded, “Probably safer shipboard if I _don’t_ blow out the walls, right? Very clever.”

“Definitely don’t want to break the Heartwood.” Quentin raised his brows as if he expected applause for that pun.

He was lucky he was so cute.

Quentin dropped his pants and then turned to wrap his arms around Eliot, their naked bodies pressed luxuriously together. “I admit, experimenting with our powers was a lot of fun. I just thought… it might be fun for you to have a special gift to open tonight. Not often a guy gets a new body. And I hear only the very, very best of men get to deflower demigods…twice, technically, I guess.”

Eliot grinned so hard his face hurt. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty special.”

He pulled Quentin toward the bathtub and then stepped in first before sinking down into the water. Once he was at eye-level with Quentin 2.0’s mighty endowment, he worked his jaws for a moment to loosen up and then leaned in to suck him enthusiastically. As he swirled his tongue around Quentin’s cock, Eliot reached back to caress Quentin’s bare cheeks, massaging and kneading the taut muscle to help Quentin relax and get into the mood.

Quentin exhaled, adjusting his stance to give Eliot access. Moaning, he rested his hands on Eliot’s shoulders to steady himself as he sank into Eliot’s mouth.

If Eliot was honest, much of why he hadn’t questioned bottoming for Q was that being supercharged with Q’s power was really heady. He wouldn’t say he’d gotten addicted, but he wasn’t _not_ addicted. He kind of had an addictive personality. It was a thing. He lived for excess. Q’s demigod powers were nothing if not excessive.

But tonight... It hadn’t even occurred to him to crave a power rush because all he wanted was to be inside Quentin. Knowing Quentin loved bottoming but had saved himself for this made Eliot tingle all over. Because, really, Q could be such a slut for Eliot. That was impressive restraint.

He gazed up at him through his lashes, knowing the way that drove Q crazy, and choked himself on Quentin’s cock over and over, taking its thick weight into his throat as deep as he could, suppressing his gag reflex to take it. Then he pulled off, breathing hard through his nose, smelling nothing but the peach and rosemary bubbles and the spicy musk of Q’s body. His eyes watered as he took Quentin deep again, and he let the tears fall down his cheeks, exulting in the freedom to do this.

Some part of him, some deep, frightened part, still grieved what he’d almost lost forever. He could never take it for granted, could never assume there would be a tomorrow.

Giving himself up to the moment, he oiled his hands, caressed his way to Quentin’s entrance, and rubbed against his flexing hole with two fingertips, massaging and teasing. His own body twitched and throbbed, so ready to be closer, so ready to be joined.

Quentin whimpered, rocking gently between Eliot’s mouth and his fingers. The sounds he made, the shuddering breaths… Quentin was so aroused; he’d always enjoyed a good show. His gaze was ever loving, ever following Eliot in a way that made him feel like _he_ was the demigod in the relationship.

Sometimes Quentin even seemed surprised to be with Eliot, and in those moments he could get shy, grow worried. But tonight, Quentin seemed affirmed, secure.

Then he stopped moving and slid free of Eliot so he could get into the tub. The bubbly water sloshed as Quentin sank down, and Eliot grasped Quentin’s hips to help him balance. He tried to steady his breathing as excitement washed through him.

Straddling Eliot, Quentin kissed him deeply, one hand at the back of his neck, the other on his back, caressing and needy, practically begging for more. As if Eliot could resist. He slowly fed his finger into Quentin’s body, breeching him so that Quentin had to stop kissing and instead rested his stubbly chin on Eliot’s shoulder, moaning softly into Eliot’s ear.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Eliot murmured, cradling Quentin against his larger body and stroking him inside and out, protective and overwhelmed with love. “You missed this, didn’t you? Fucking just to fuck, just for the pleasure of our bodies and our closeness. It’s tough work being a demigod, huh?”

He nuzzled Quentin’s long white hair and sighed, letting Quentin hear his enjoyment, and rolled his hips just a little so his hard cock glided alongside Quentin’s between their bellies. “You need this, don’t you? To be taken, and taken care of. My sweet Q. You’re so beautiful. You were so fucking handsome today, standing at the altar in that ridiculous, amazing suit, waiting for me. My heart was pounding. I could hardly walk. Margo had to keep me going, because I just… I can’t believe this is real, Q. I can’t believe it’s just us this time, that we’re married. Really married, not just those old friends raising a kid together, not just life partners who kiss and experiment with sex magic when they’re horny or bored.”

Working a second finger into Quentin, Eliot whispered, “I always loved you. It scared me so much thinking you didn’t… That you weren’t as crazy for me as I was for you, that I was out on a limb alone. But now you’re mine, because you choose it. Because you want it.”

“Thought I was the one on the limb.” Quentin swallowed hard. It reminded Eliot of the fights they’d have in that shack. About living their lives, about things Quentin needed that Eliot couldn’t give yet. “Got worried you wouldn’t… show.”

Quentin’s voice was breathy, their bodies slick together. He slipped a hand between them, fisting their cocks. “Didn’t do it just because I was bored, El. It was always real to me.”

He pulled back to gaze into Eliot’s eyes. His cheeks were red, sweat beading on his brow. His white hair lay matted to his face. “Then there you were. Dancing into my life. This time I knew you wanted me.”

Gripping Eliot’s hand, Quentin brought it up to his own throat and spread Eliot’s fingers. “Was there. Day after day. Watching over the Monster. You were again right there… but not for me. Didn’t even think you wanted me, but I was determined to get you back.”

_Well that took a turn_.

Eliot frowned and stroked Quentin’s skin, gazing at him intently, waiting for Quentin to give him some clue what he needed. “You… Q… I’m so sorry. I thought…”

What did he think? When he’d used the god-killing bullet, he’d just been focused on saving Quentin. On not _losing_ Quentin. It had been too much to contemplate, no matter how noble Quentin was trying to be.

Because Q was noble. He was too noble, too willing to sacrifice himself, and it was always Eliot’s job to make sure Q survived. That he thrived. That he didn’t throw away all the wonderful, amazing things that made him who he was in pursuit of some kind of heroic end.

Sighing, Eliot closed his eyes and fucked Quentin slowly on two fingers, rubbing against his sweet spot and struggling for the right words. “I love you, Q. Always loved you. Always will. Just tell me what you need from me. Anything you want, it’s yours.”

“Well, I mean…” Quentin paused. Eliot opened his eyes to see Quentin looking embarrassed, which was… either very bad or very good. Sometimes his hesitation meant Quentin felt insecure; other times, it meant he was going to propose something new. “It’s nothing. It was probably just that I was kind of lonely for you and…”

“And what?” Eliot prompted, interest piqued. He nuzzled Quentin’s face and whispered, “You know you can tell me anything, baby boy. I’ll take such good care of you. What do you want?”

“I’m not sure I _want_ it, it just… kind of… The Monster was kind of… abusing your body, which I was pretty sure you’d need, and um.” Quentin’s wince filled Eliot with dread at what the Monster might’ve done. “He threatened me and grabbed me by the throat, and I don’t know if it was… Or if it was because it was your body, and my body kind of associates…things.”

Eliot blinked and narrowed his gaze, puzzling through Q’s abject humiliation, and then he realized. The hand on Q’s throat, Q’s arousal, his shame about it… He couldn’t stand for Quentin to feel guilty or weird about his desires, about his feelings. How strange it must’ve been for Q to stand watch over Eliot’s intimately familiar body while a strange force piloted it. No wonder he was tangled up inside about it.

“Oh, Q.” Eliot tightened his hand on Q’s throat just a little and pulled him in for a kiss, brushing their lips together and then kissing his way along Quentin’s stubbly jaw. “That’s just a little breathplay, baby boy. It’s not weird. How long has this been eating at you?” He nibbled Quentin’s earlobe as he rubbed his fingertips into Quentin’s prostate and then asked softly, “You want Daddy to choke you, sweetheart?”

Quentin blushed harder as he smiled and nodded, seeming relieved. “I mean, before, I didn’t really even have a body, and I didn’t want to risk… but as a demigod… I don’t think you can really kill me that way. Have you done it before?”

“It only counts once I do it with you,” Eliot said, meaning it. He looked into Quentin’s eyes and then kissed him slowly, caressing and gently squeezing his throat. Against Quentin’s lips, he murmured, “But I do know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes.” Quentin stared into Eliot’s eyes as he tightened his hand on Q’s throat, stopping his breath for just a moment. Then Eliot let off slowly, and Q took a deep, reflexive breath. “Maybe… while you’re inside me?”

“Mhm,” Eliot agreed, more excited than he’d have expected. But there was something infuriating about knowing the Monster had worn his body, had choked Quentin, had confused him and turned him on and then vanished into the Seam beyond reach of Eliot’s vengeance. All he could do now was overwrite that input, give Quentin a different experience of it, a better one, one that truly belonged to them.

He released Quentin’s throat and pulled his fingers free before reaching again for the oil. He pressed it into Quentin’s hands and said, “Get me ready.”

Quentin wasted no time. He slathered the oil over Eliot’s cock, teasing them both, and once Eliot was rock hard, Quentin sat up on his knees and pressed Eliot’s cock to his opening without further preparation. Closing his eyes, he sank down a couple of inches, letting Eliot inside of him, taking him like he was starving for it. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Eliot’s, holding him by the shoulders as he kissed him.

And this was real. Here was Eliot pushing inside his strange boy, his husband, being kissed with absolute trust, with such sweet surrender. This was his for always, for as long as they both should live.

Quentin exhaled, trying to relax, letting Eliot in bit by bit. It was gloriously, torturously slow, between a brand-new body and Q’s nerves about the breathplay. Eliot was living for it, nibbling at Quentin’s lips and grasping him by the waist to steady him while he rocked ever deeper onto Eliot’s cock. Margo liked to tell Eliot he was hung like a centaur, and that excused Quentin’s achingly gradual descent and the way he gasped against Eliot’s mouth with every new undulation.

For his part, Eliot held still and let Quentin take what he wanted when he wanted, though part of Eliot just wanted to surge up and flip Q over, just pound into him with all the lust and need simmering below Eliot’s tranquil surface. But this was Q’s second first time, and it carried with it all the same solemnity and self-control of the first first time. Eliot had been shocked then that Quentin wanted him that way, that Quentin was _willing_ , but now…

Gazing at Quentin’s furrowed brow, his exultant expression, the tiny rivulets of perspiration coursing down his face and making strands of white hair stick to his temples… Quentin loved this. Quentin was meant for this, meant to yield and take in what he was given, meant to hold Eliot inside him. Because when Eliot was inside Q, he drove out all the doubts and insecurity, he drove out the dark thoughts and the worry. When Q was full of Eliot, there wasn’t room for anything else, and it was just the two of them, joined and inseparable, the way they were meant to be.

He let his expression soften into wonder, let Quentin read his heart in his eyes, and then said in a low growl, “You’re almost too tight, aren’t you, sweetheart? Trying so hard to take it all. Slow and steady, yeah? A little at a time. Feels so good, baby boy. Your sweet little hole opening up and stretching, taking me in, gripping my cock like that.”

Lifting one hand to Quentin’s throat again, he stroked along the tendons. “Makes me want to grip you back. You want that? You want to feel my hand on you, almost too tight?”

Quentin trembled, probably nerves as much as the strain. He tilted his head back eagerly, offering his throat to Eliot. He was so sweet, so trusting, yearning and willing.

Eliot pictured Quentin during those months the Monster had control, wanting Eliot when he was right there, so starved for him that even an act of violence had felt intimate. And maybe it had been. The Monster had seen Quentin as the source of all love and attention. Anyone else it wouldn’t have hesitated to kill, would it?

Quentin leaned into the light pressure of Eliot’s hand, relaxing more, taking him in. Q started to stroke his own cock, eyes closing in sensual feeling but opening again because he seemed determined to maintain eye contact. “I want you.”

“I want you too, more than anything.” Eliot licked his own lips as he gazed at Quentin’s flushed face, his bright eyes, and then squeezed just a little, just enough to make it hard for Q to breathe. Everything else remained still, letting Q have control, but Eliot controlled this, held Quentin’s life in his hand.

Quentin relaxed still more, finally resting flush with Eliot deep inside. Leaning in more, Quentin rolled his hips, his body creating a current in the tub. Warm, foamy water splashed over the sides as he moved, shifting slightly until he got Eliot’s cock right where he wanted it.

He backed off a moment, catching his breath, then leaned in again, trusting Eliot to take him and to take care of him. That turned Eliot on almost to the point of losing control, but he held back carefully, focusing on what Quentin had been through with the Monster, on what Quentin deserved now to reclaim every moment lost to that fucker wearing Eliot’s face.

“Oh Q,” Eliot sighed, soaking in the bliss of the moment, of Quentin’s surrender, as if he wasn’t a demigod at all, just the same nerdy young man he’d always been. It filled Eliot with indescribable love, with a passion he’d never felt, and he shivered with it, overwhelmed. Quentin had been through so much for him, had endured so much, and Eliot would spend the rest of his life trying to show Quentin how grateful he was, how much he loved him.

Gently, Eliot choked Quentin with one hand as he stroked Quentin’s back with the other, every movement tender as he thrust up into Q, moving with him as Quentin leaned in and let his own weight cut off his breath against Eliot’s firm hand. They worked together, slow and hungry, gazes trained on each other as Quentin clung to Eliot’s broad shoulders. Each passing moment weighed on Eliot, meaning and fate pressing in, and he felt his soul open to it, open to Quentin, and those forty-one lifetimes bloomed inside him, all their untimely deaths, all their tragedy, and all the undeniable love that had shaped them time after time.

And this was the last lifetime, the final loop. This was the one that counted, and Quentin was here, was his, so unutterably and completely his.

Shuddering, Eliot kissed along Quentin’s shoulder, along his arm, everywhere he could reach, and whispered, “You can feel it too, can’t you? How this was always going to happen. How it was always meant to be. You died too soon, and this bond brought you back to fulfill our fates. This was who were born to become, Quentin. Who we had to be.” He laughed softly. “It’s fucking crazy. It’s… But this is _real_.”

Destiny entwined them. Their magic wound around them both, sparking as Quentin’s face brightened with pleasure. He released Eliot’s shoulder to pull his cock, writhing in Eliot’s lap, getting close.

Golden glimmers shot toward the planks, and in response, the Muntjac created designs on her ceiling and along the walls, beautiful gilt etchings in patterns of ivy. The Heartwood responded to them, to their love, glowing with it.

Quentin started to choke as his lungs demanded more air. Eliot allowed him a good gasp, then tightened his hand again as Quentin moved faster, leaning in harder, forcing back Eliot’s hand so Quentin could kiss him.

“That’s it,” Eliot whispered, encouraging him, kissing him back. He fucked into Quentin as they moved together, as their tongues slid alongside one another, and he trembled with the effort of taking it slow, of being gentle. He bit at Quentin’s bottom lip, suckling the soft skin, and then pressed his mouth to the corner of Quentin’s. “You’re gonna come so hard for me, Q. I’m gonna steal your breath, and it’s just gonna flow through you, overtake you, and then I’ll come for you, and we’ll go to bed tonight knowing we belong to each other.”

Eliot allowed Quentin one more quick breath, and then Quentin wailed and let go, head bowed against Eliot’s forehead. His release tingled on Eliot’s chest like it was marking him. Its magic sank into his skin, and Eliot fantasized wildly it was like a brand, something that would be on him forever. It shouldn’t have turned him on—it never would’ve, once—but now it sent a thrill through Eliot, that proof of permanence, of family, of belonging.

When Quentin was done, he pushed Eliot’s hand away from his throat, then braced on Eliot’s shoulders, riding him harder, faster. His voice was raspy when he whispered, “Fill me up.”

“Oh god,” Eliot groaned, gut-punched and so aroused he could hardly stand it. He arched upward into Quentin, meeting every thrust like he was gonna crawl out of his skin, struggling closer to his husband—his _husband_ —and gasping for air. “Quentin… Oh my god, _Quentin_.”

And then it was too much, too good, with Quentin clenching around him, coaxing the pleasure from him, driving Eliot completely fucking crazy. He cried out wordlessly, grinding and grasping and clinging, shaking as his balls tightened and his cock pulsed and he shot into Q’s perfect heat again and again. Q wrung the bliss out of Eliot, every last drop, until he was aching and spent and writhing helpless under Q’s insistent attention.

Then he exhaled long and weary, letting go of tension and worry, letting it all dissipate into nothing as the Muntjac displayed an incredible lightshow across her ceiling and walls, everything glistening and glittering and so far beyond perfect. All Eliot could do was reach dumbly for Quentin’s face and draw him into a deep, heady kiss.

Quentin slid back, releasing Eliot from inside of him, kissing him again before he turned over to settle in against his chest. He pulled Eliot’s limp arms around him as if he wanted to be completely wrapped up in him. Which he probably did. He could be so sappy.

He turned his head to kiss Eliot again and then rested his head on Eliot’s shoulder as he watched the Heartwood’s display. She appeared to be growing, even.

“You know when we return and the Muntjac is a cruise ship, someone’s going to think we were up to something.” Quentin’s raw voice was very sexy. If Eliot wasn’t so utterly spent, his cock might’ve twitched a little.

Smiling with open joy, Eliot leaned in and nuzzled Quentin, holding him tight. “We could use a new cruise-style Muntjac, couldn’t we? So we can bring all our family on these adventures with us…”

Laughing, Eliot said, a little dazed, “A teenager, a precocious preteen, and a fucking infant. What are we doing, Q?” He loved the idea, though. He’d been so used to claiming no family but Margo, and now…

“We’ve got Fen and Josh… and Julia.”

Quentin pointedly didn’t mention Margo, which was funny, but also probably true. Given that she’d traded Fennel to the Fairy Queen before she’d even been born, maybe Margo wasn’t really the aunt to trust kids to. Eliot’s life had been in apparent danger, and he understood now why she’d done it, but…

“And if Poppy tries to claim Draco back…” Quentin cracked his knuckles. “But I bet we’re not going to see her again unless we need a dragon for something.”

Eliot snorted delicately and let the languor of the warm bubble bath and Q’s solid body against his relax him completely. “It’s gonna be a good life, isn’t it, baby boy?”

“It’s going to be the beauty of all life. I can’t believe we thought magic was based on pain when just living the simple beauty of life was the key to greater magic. It was right there.” Quentin turned his head to look at Eliot and smiled. “We finally figured it out. After exhausting all other options.”

“Exhausting is right,” Eliot murmured. He kissed Q’s hair and then stretched his legs in the water and got a little comfier. “Now let’s save the big thinky talk for later. Daddy wants a nap.”

 

~*~

 

Morning sun streamed through the skylight over the bed in the Muntjac. Quentin flung his arm over his eyes in hopes of blocking it out. The day before had been lovely, but very long and draining in the way that weddings were.

He ran his thumb over his ring finger, feeling that simple band, reassuring him that it all really did happen; it wasn’t just a very, very good dream. He was satisfyingly sore from their nighttime activities.

The boat rocked gently in a calm sea. It could’ve lulled him back to sleep, but he sneaked a peek around his arm to see that their lovemaking really had made a permanent impression on the Muntjac. The beautifully intricate swirls and designs on the ceiling and walls remained as they’d been the night before. And maybe he was imagining it, but it did feel like the cabin was roomier.

The small sage desk seemed even smaller in the room, dominated by the _Arcana Arcanorum_ opened across the surface with the seedpod Julia had given him from the Drowned Garden right next to it.

He didn’t remember opening the book, just setting it down, but it was open now. Very curious.

The book itself had been somewhat bafflingly put together, as if it were a compilation of Ikea instruction manuals on how to put together furniture Quentin lacked the parts for. Some of it was interesting and explored deeper magical theory—the sort of thing that someone with a Knowledge discipline would more properly put to use—but Quentin mostly followed it.

Mostly.

The more he read, the more he felt like he understood, but paradoxically, the less he could now remember. Other than, in spite of it having no discernable narrative and a lot more diagrams, it gave him the feeling he used to have reading the Fillory books.

All he needed now was to find out that the Zwei Vogel was some kind of pervert he’d have to kill.

Grim.

Quentin pushed that thought from his mind and slowly, regretfully, detangled from Eliot to see what page the book had opened to. He was surprised by his lack of surprise.

A diagram of the very same seedpod he’d been given was illustrated on the page. All around it were spells and potions, intricately timed with strange ingredients, the strangest being the seedpod itself.

This was clearly no coincidence.

But to what end?

Quentin looked over his shoulder at Eliot, who was clearly half-awake and just dozing to be petulant. El had sprawled across Quentin’s half of the bed and buried his face in Quentin’s pillow, soaking in his scent and body heat. His dark curls stuck up around his head, cutely rumpled in a way Eliot rarely allowed himself to be while awake.

As Quentin watched, Eliot stretched again and then groaned, hand extended toward Quentin pleadingly.

“This is a vacation, Q,” he muttered, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Do demigods get vacations?” Quentin picked up the book and showed the illustration to Eliot. “Look, it’s the seedpod Julia gave us. A god gives you a gift, and an ex-girlfriend gives you a book, and they seem to go together… Maybe it means something?”

As he said it, the surer he became of the connection. Alice had seemed mostly nervous and suspicious when it came to Julia. She had been his childhood crush, emphasis on being crushed most of the time. He’d never been very good at expressing to Alice how much she’d eclipsed Julia in his esteem. They were both so young.

None of that really mattered now, at least beyond it being thought-provoking that the two people he’d loved the most up until Eliot had conspired to give him a very interesting wedding present.

With a low, pitiful whine, Eliot flopped onto his back and stretched in the sunlight pouring down from above. It was _almost_ distracting. He reached down and gave his half-hard cock a squeeze as he gazed at Quentin and then pouted. “I was hoping you’d wake me up with something more romantic than a book from your ex, but I guess this is married life.”

Despite his pouting, Quentin could tell he was interested. El might talk like he was a dissolute lush, but he had an amazing mind.

Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, Eliot sat up and took the book, examining the page Quentin had shown him. Quentin clocked the moment Eliot’s intrigue overpowered his love of lounging around getting frisky.

“Wow. This is… I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an involved spell, Q. Look at this…” El traced the steps with a fingertip, seeming to do the mental calculations. “This is… I mean, it looks like this might really be something special. You don’t think Jules and Alice were… y’know… in cahoots?”

“Did you just say cahoots?” Quentin snickered. “I think they rootin’ tootin’ may well have been.”

At Eliot’s withering look, Quentin cleared his throat and pulled it together. “The rest of the book is a lot of magical theory, a collection of spells. It’s strange, almost like it doesn’t quite go together. I was trying to just read it, and it was… obviously I spent a few hours with it.”

He stood up and reclaimed the book, sliding his finger from spell to spell. “They’re all connected. Some of these require four hands, and then…”

Quentin looked up at the ceiling again and then down at the floor. “Holy shit… I thought… I just thought it was the Heartwood, but look at this… This is Fillorian script.”

“What—Q, I just woke up. What are you saying? C’mere and say it in my ear all cute like, maybe while squeezing my ass a little?” Eliot made a really endearing face, all big brown eyes, and waited for Quentin to give in.

Quentin slid his hand down to squeeze Eliot’s ass, then gave it a little spank. “I’m saying, I think we’re already casting this spell, which is frightening and really cool. Frightening because I’m not _entirely_ sure what it does, but cool because Julia and Alice wanted whatever this is for us… and I think… I think it’s going to be really good. Maybe like… I mean, this bit… Scythian Dream… it seems like maybe… it’s a world?”

“Wait… What?” El blinked drowsily up at Quentin and then looked at the book, seeming to slowly put it together. His gaze sharpened. “We’re making a world? Like…just the two of us? How did we— Was this with the fucking last night? And the Muntjac’s little lightshow?”

Eliot gave Quentin a shit-eating grin. “Is there anything our sex magic _can’t_ do?”

“Make a baby?” Quentin said that and immediately regretted it because, for all he knew, somewhere in that book… and he didn’t really want to go there. They already had three.

Fortunately, they both had terrified expressions on their faces, so Quentin just laughed nervously. “Anyway, a world is kind of a baby. A really big one. With grass and trees. You think there will be trees? There would have to be trees.”

“So who’s gestating this baby?” El asked, narrowing his gaze as he eyed Quentin. “Because I’m already radiant. I really don’t need motherhood.” He tugged at Quentin’s hip and purred, “You want me to knock you up, Q?”

Quentin was roughly seventy-five percent certain it was just teasing. El was wearing his teasing expression. But he was also giving Quentin a speculative look.

“Um…” Quentin shifted uncomfortably. He looked at the book and then around at the spell already started. What if that was in this book and it started a spell without them? He put one hand on his belly but wasn’t sure where a baby would even gestate on a man. “You don’t think I’m radiant?”

Eliot threw back his head and guffawed, flopping back onto the bed as he shook with laughter. “Oh my god, Q. It’s a _joke_.” Eliot’s whole body trembled with glee as he clutched his stomach and throat and then flailed a little as if overcome with hilarity.

Then he sobered up with remarkable quickness and stood, looking down into Quentin’s eyes before he cupped his face and kissed him gently. “You’re beyond radiant, baby. You’re literally a demigod. It’s good to know that hasn’t made you any less awkward. I really love your awkwardness.”

Quentin felt his whole body grow hot. “I just thought, we’ve already got a pretty big family, and um… Anyway, like I said, a world is kind of a baby.”

He was so relieved. He’d read some mpreg, but he couldn’t imagine living that. He wasn’t even sure it was possible in the real world, but then again, he was a demigod in Fillory, so as far as the extremes of possible and impossible went… it was probably _possible_.

Returning his attention to the book, Quentin tried to put the rest of it out of his mind, which didn’t really take long as he lost himself in the spells. “You know… Margo was pretty assertive in giving us the Muntjac for our honeymoon. I bet if we check around, we’ll find these elements in a drawer or something.”

“Roger that. Rifle the Muntjac for spell components.” Eliot looked like he was getting into it now. He often got into it once he’d reduced Quentin to full-body blushing.

Without bothering to put on any clothes, Eliot wandered over to a chest of drawers and started digging through its contents. Glancing back over his shoulder at Quentin, he flexed his ass one cheek at a time and then winked before resuming his search.

Quentin gazed at Eliot bent over like that, entranced by his ass and, really, everything about him. Even if he was kind of evil and enjoyed giving Quentin a fright every so often. “Check the wet bar. I bet Margo would bank on us raiding the liquor cabinet and at least being aware she’d tucked things away there. We need a silver bell, ground granite, silt, um…” He named off a few other ingredients, sure that these were probably all here.

He set the book open on the bed and started to mime some of the tuts without words or intent, just making sure that he got it before really trying to cast.

“You realize me checking the wet bar is going to slow this whole production down.” Eliot didn’t even bother searching it before he poured himself a drink. Then, brandishing a bottle of gin, he looked to Quentin. “You want one, slugger? Might help you get in touch with your innate demigoditude.” Eliot sipped his and added, “Or not. This is pretty strong.”

“Think it’s better if I stay straight. I mean, for a value of the word.” Quentin grinned, then left the book to help Eliot search, which mostly devolved into some groping and kissing before he got serious and found the silver bell and labeled vials of ingredients. “These were all in front of the gin. How did you miss them?”

Eliot rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “This is a _honeymoon_ , Q. The only thing I anticipated searching for was the limits of your demigod refractory capacity.” He shrugged as if to ask Quentin what more he could expect and then went in for another grope and kiss.

Quentin gave himself over to it for a moment, tasting the sweetness of the gin from Eliot’s lips. He pawed at Eliot’s ass, giving each cheek a firm squeeze. “Maybe this new land will be like an island. We can think of somewhere tropical? Oh, or somewhere like in space. We could have space sex.”

“Mm that _does_ sound worth doing,” Eliot agreed, as Quentin had known he would. Eliot always really seemed to enjoy new environs for banging. He grinned and kissed Quentin again and then stepped away, suddenly demure, and waved Quentin back toward the bed. “So show me what we’ve got to do. I’m on board with this tropical island paradise for two, or possibly more, depending on if we invite our entire family to join us. With, of course, the understanding that I will refuse to wear any clothes whatsoever.”

“Of course.”

Quentin grinned and followed Eliot, carrying the vials and bell on a little tray. He couldn’t see the problem with it if they were creating their own land, which seemed to be what they were doing. He wished there were hints about what the new land might be, but he supposed in some ways it really was like making a baby. You got what you got, and it grew out of the casters.

Quentin got out a notebook and wrote up a breakdown of the spells, including timing, and ordered the ingredients. Eliot provided drinks and food. After lunch, they started to mime the four-handed spells together, ironing out their coordination, which actually went quite smoothly when Eliot could keep his hands off Quentin’s ass.

By the afternoon, Quentin felt pretty good about their preparations. The spell would take an incredible amount of power, but fortunately, he was a demigod now, and he didn’t think that would be a problem. And, somehow, Eliot still had his flask of Fountain magic.

They had one last snack to fortify them and then began the series of spells, casting on the seedpod, which grew and glowed. They watched with pride and horror as the light changed in the ship, the Muntjac herself reacting to the magic. One of the portholes showed a view of an alien world for about an hour, and cold spots developed on the floor.

They kept casting though, in perfect tandem, and Eliot as ever seemed none the worse for the booze. It was almost as good as sex, working together, their power flowing together, and when Eliot needed more, he drew on Quentin’s through their triple-sealed bond. Quentin couldn’t imagine this casting working with anyone else.

After two minutes of honest-to-god snow that made Quentin really regret Eliot’s position on naked casting, Eliot clapped his hands together. “Done.”

At least, he’d completed his list of spells, leaving Quentin to finish the rest. It’s all mending spells from here on out, doable by two hands, but only with perfect concentration.

Though Quentin’s voice was still a little hoarse from their breathplay, he chanted on, blushing while he tried to control the surges of power flowing through him. It felt like his fingers were going to catch fire. Were he not a demigod, this might’ve turned him into a Niffin.

As it was, it felt like he was clinging to reality by the skin of his teeth. Gravity had become more of a question than a certainty. The light kept changing, like attending a rave while on a very bad acid trip.

Then the cabin lost oxygen. Suddenly Quentin couldn’t breathe in a completely unsexy way. He turned his gaze to Eliot, who looked disturbed, hand to his chest. This was the end, and yet it almost seemed like what they were forming was more a black hole than a world. It started to pull loose items into it, including Eliot’s bottle of gin.

If Eliot had been able to scream, he looked as if he might’ve.

But this was it. The last command. Either Quentin had just killed them both or he’d made a new world.

He dropped to the floor and banged his fist in the middle of the Fillorian script and, using his last bit of breath, yelled, “Nothung!”

Time dilated.

Quentin’s skin burned. For a moment he feared he really had overpowered himself and was about to flame out.

The Muntjac barrel rolled, leaving the entire cabin in a shambles, but then time and oxygen returned. The porthole looked out onto Fillory again, and moonlight showed through the skylight.

They’d been at it all day.

Next to the questionable porthole was a large wooden door, much like the one on the front of the Mosaic cottage, but brighter somehow. As if it was glowing.

There was a knob, and below it, a key hung from the lock.

“Shall we?” Eliot grinned at Quentin and reached for the key.

Then Eliot turned it in the lock with a click that seemed to echo. Shooting Quentin a look of mischief and trepidation, Eliot opened the door.

Beyond lay a beautiful black-sand beach with clear green water, and beyond that, a mountain valley filled with flowers and what looked like a waterfall with a meltwater stream. As they held hands and stepped through the doorway, the ocean breeze washed over Quentin’s skin, just the right side of cool to make him press closer against Eliot.

“Look what we did,” Eliot murmured, slipping his arm around Quentin’s waist and drawing him close. “Did we… We _made_ this, didn’t we?”

“We did. We do good work. And look!” A few yards ahead, the bottle of gin was sticking out of the black sand. Quentin scampered forward and pulled it from the sand. Now that the spell was completed, he took a swig, which was, well, very gin-y. “Where to? Waterfall?”

“Mm, yes.” Eliot laughingly swatted Quentin’s ass and then nabbed the bottle of gin, sipping some himself before offering the bottle to Quentin again. He took off toward the mossy stream bank with its smooth stones at a long-legged stride, making Quentin hustle to keep up.

They fell into step together, sharing the bottle and stealing kisses as they explored. The waterfall hadn’t seemed that far away from the beach, but as they walked, it never seemed to get much closer. Then they reached a bend in the stream and started a sharper ascent, and the waterfall came into clearer focus. It was _much_ bigger than Quentin had imagined from the beach, which, when he looked back, seemed far away. The glowing door to the Muntjac still stood open there, waiting for them.

“Ugh, I should’ve kept up my cardio,” Eliot groaned as they started up another mossy switchback toward the waterfall above. He eyed Quentin. “At least that muscle upgrade from the Prince of the Mud is doing you right.”

Quentin laughed and had to admit that he wasn’t really feeling the strain yet. “I don’t think it was the Prince’s idea. Apparently, timeline fourteen Jane made me a gym rat, to see if I’d be… I don’t know. It didn’t work. And twenty-three’s Beast apparently tried other enhancements atop the sixth finger.”

He was pretty sure this was true, though most of his knowledge of other timelines now came in dreams, or memories triggered by sounds or smells. It was a strange way to live, though he usually didn’t drift into those memories unless his mind was already wandering. “This really is beautiful, isn’t it? We should probably map it all out before bringing the kids. It’s bigger than I thought already.”

“It’s amazing.”

Eliot laughed and reached for Quentin’s hand, holding it as they finally reached the waterfall. The sound of falling water filled their senses, and they twined their fingers as they looked from up from the falls’ pool to the top of its cliff. Ferns grew everywhere in verdant profusion, and the water was a beautiful deep aqua over its bed of smooth black stones and black sand.

“Is that—” Eliot craned his neck and stood on tiptoe, barely audible over the roar. “Yeah, there’s… There’s a pathway up here, if we—”

El tugged Q after him, and Q went, trusting his tall husband could see what Quentin couldn’t. They clambered up a pile of tumbled stones onto a well-worn pathway carved into the rock and leading behind the waterfall. Turning his gaze on Quentin, Eliot glowed with excitement. Then he started forward, sipping more gin as he led the way.

The temperature dropped as they stepped behind the curtain of falling water into a shadowy cave whose depths appeared illuminated by bioluminescent lichen. It looked, Quentin had to admit, fucking awesome.

Eliot walked toward it, tugging Quentin after him up a shallow incline, and then they both stood and stared at a doorway that seemed to grow out of the cave rock.

“A world within a world!” Quentin gaped.

This seemed unprecedented, but then so was casting a spell to make a world. It seemed the apex of his magical proficiency and use. He’d been exhausted at the end of the spell, but walking into this magical land had renewed his energy.

That must be what being a demigod was all about. He had that kind of power. He could make worlds, and apparently worlds within them. What would be through this door? The space odyssey he’d suggested?

Only one way to find out.

A key was in the door, waiting to be turned. Quentin went for it, opened the door, and tumbled through… to the Physical Kids cottage.

There it was, wall in green, TADA.

Dean Fogg stood on the stairs, hands up, already loading battle magic, but he paused as he took them in.

“Quentin, if you’re going to insist on being alive again, I’m going to have to insist you put on some clothes.” He eyed Eliot and shook his head. “And _you_ have already been told that.”

“I know, I know. But hear me out…” Eliot grinned so wide it made Quentin’s heart soar. He looked around, seeming to absorb that he was really back at the Physical Kids cottage, his first kingdom, and then he exhaled happily. “Dean Fogg, I have never been so delighted to see you.” Then he flashed his ring. “Sorry we didn’t invite you to the wedding.”

“I heard. Congratulations.” Fogg sighed in that long-suffering way he had. “Now, as it seems Brakebills is not actually being attacked by anything but…lack of shame, I’ll head back to my office. Figure out how to make an allowance for this off-campus portal.”

He seemed as composed and annoyed as ever, but Quentin thought he detected a hint of pride that his students had managed this.

“Thank you, Dean Fogg. We’re going to um… maybe… head back.” Quentin was excited that he could return to earth, apparently. It wasn’t a land he’d built, but a bridge.

Dean Fogg moved between Eliot and Quentin to the door, which opened onto the campus as it should for him. He put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “I say this with all sincerity, Quentin. Congratulations on being back. I am happy for you two. Now get off my campus.”

“Rude,” Eliot declared, but he still sounded delighted. He smiled at Dean Fogg. “We’ll be back, you know.” At Dean Fogg’s expression, Eliot amended, “Wearing clothes, possibly, and maybe a little less ginned up.”

A gasp from the top of the staircase alerted them to someone’s presence, and they turned to see Todd coming down the steps, eyes wide. “Eliot! Quentin!”

“Oh god,” Eliot muttered under his breath. “Go, Fogg. Run for your life. Get out while you can.”

“Damn it, Todd.” Fogg looked fond, though. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

Surprising everyone, Fogg slapped Quentin and Eliot’s asses before he left.

The door shut, leaving them naked and alone with Todd.

“Um, we should probably… it’s our honeymoon and…” Quentin pointed at the door, holding up his key.

“You at Brakebills for your honeymoon?” Todd asked, beaming at them both. “Want me to make you a Todd signature cocktail? You don’t have to go so fast. I’m sure Fogg was just joking.”

Todd looked—to Quentin’s horror—like he was coming in for a hug.

“Go. Now,” Eliot whispered, positioning himself between Quentin and Todd protectively.

Quentin turned, stuck his key in the now glowing door, turned it, and pulled Eliot through. They fell back behind the waterfall, laughing so hard that he couldn’t even speak. He just pulled Eliot close and held him tight. Eliot stopped laughing long enough to kiss Quentin, and then they got lost in each other for long moments, sprawled on the cool, mossy floor of the cave, with three worlds at their feet and lifetimes ahead of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, this is it. Thank you for taking this AU Season 5 fix-it journey with us. If you want to leave a comment and tell us your thoughts, we'd love to hear from you. We'll be adding more to this universe eventually, so please check back with us or subscribe [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1361581) if you want to be notified. We love y'all. ♥ Queliot forever.


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